


Like Sugar to My Heart

by complexhero



Category: RWBY
Genre: AU: Restaurant industry, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24624724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/complexhero/pseuds/complexhero
Summary: Clover is the dedicated but overworked head baker at Ironwood Pâtisserie. Qrow is the mysterious new sales rep for Beacon Fine Foods, who knows a lot about food but nothing about sales. Clover had always believed that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but the path to Qrow's had rather a few more twists and turns than he was anticipating.AKA the Bakery AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 164
Kudos: 126





	1. Inventory Day

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been really hard to feel creative these past few weeks. So here's the dumb thing I wrote to distract me from the other dumb thing I wrote to distract me. I promise chapters are drafted or close to, in my other WIPs, but I'm waiting until my headspace is right to make sure they don't just sound like...well. 
> 
> This story will have a much shorter arc, so hopefully it won't eat my brain like the other two. I'm thinking 5-6 chapters total. Here we goooo!

Wednesday was New Year’s Day. A holiday. They were closed. But it was also the first of the month, and the first of the month was inventory. And Clover loved inventory. So Clover came in.

His team thought he was crazy. _‘Obsessive compulsive’_ was the way Harriet phrased it. But Clover needed to know, down to the gram, exactly how much of every single ingredient they had. Specifically, in that liminal space between closing in one month and opening in the next. He’d tried to outsource the task, but no one else ever did it the way he liked it. Consistency was key. They couldn’t be measuring chocolate well into the third of the month, when they’d already blasted through half a case. Nor could they be ‘eyeballing’ expensive ingredients, or massaging the numbers to make the margins look good.

There was also, he could admit, a certain base pleasure he got from consolidating and organizing their entire inventory so that it absolutely _sang_. It was a monthly cleaning party, and New Year’s Day was a special instance because it meant no one was around to mess up his perfect system.

So there he was, on his hands and knees, ass in the air and half of dry storage spread out on the tables when the new sales rep from Beacon Fine Foods came in.

“Uhhhh…hello?”

Clover startled, banging his head on the underside of the metal table, from where he’d been retrieving a half-full case of almond flour from a neglected corner of the shelf. He scrambled back, sitting unceremoniously on the floor and holding the back of his head. Not the most sanitary place to rest, but it wasn’t like he’d be _preparing_ any food today. Just measuring it. If he didn’t have brain damage.

When he looked up, there was a gods-honest gorgeous man looking down at him. He had pale skin and deep red eyes, with dark gray-streaked hair that looked so soft it begged to be touched. Or contained with a proper hairnet.

“Hi.”

Smooth one, Chef.

“Uh,” he said. “I mean, can I help you?”

“Sorry if I scared you,” the man said, rubbing the back of his head. A faint blush colored his cheeks. It was adorable. “The back door was open. I knocked?”

Huh, he thought he’d heard some kind of commotion. But that was…several minutes ago. Clover had gone right back to his mental happy place when there was no follow-up. How long had this guy been standing there?

“I don’t suppose you saw the doorbell,” Clover said, with a grin.

The man flushed even redder. “Was there one?”

“There still is,” Clover said. Just like he was still on the floor. “We’re closed for the holiday, sorry.”

“Holiday?”

Clover frowned. “New Year’s?”

The man blinked. Apparently, Clover wasn’t the only one who skipped the parties last night. Elm could suck on that. See, he wasn’t _lame._

“Oh, uh…guess I didn’t notice that either,” the man said. “So…I’m guessing you don’t want to make an order, then? I could come back tomorrow?”

Clover’s eyes finally took in the whole package…and it was a very nice package. The man was dressed casually, but with style. He wore black slacks and boots, along with a fitted gray button-down shirt and a vest with decorative stitching. Enough buttons were open to display the pale column of his throat, and the peek of a white undershirt. The clothes were well-tailored, and the man had a lanky, relaxed posture. He was stunning, and here Clover was sitting on the floor in a tank top and checks, with flour in his hair.

As lovely as that all was, the important detail was the tablet he was holding. The one with the sticker of the Beacon logo on the back.

“Oh!” Clover said. “You’re from Beacon! Ozpin told me they had a new rep coming.”

He scrambled up, brushing himself off before sticking out his hand. “I’m Clover, the bakery manager.”

The man took his hand, giving it a firm shake. “Qrow.”

Their hands clasped for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, eyes locked. Qrow’s skin was warm, his hand faintly calloused. Strange, for a sales rep.

“Nice to meet you, Qrow,” he said, grinning. “You’re new?”

“Heh, is it that obvious?” Qrow said, sheepishly. “I’m not really what you’d call a sales type.”

Qrow was some kind of type, and it was Clover’s.

“I think you’re great,” he blurted out.

Oh gods, he was still holding Qrow’s hand. He released the other man, a flush creeping up his own neck. Qrow studied his tablet intently, breaking the eye contact.

“Um, I can put together an order,” Clover said, with a nervous laugh. “If you’re okay with hanging out for a minute?”

Qrow shrugged. “Might as well. I’m guessing you’re not the only joint closed today.”

“Probably, though if my boss had his way we’d be open year-round,” Clover said, heading toward the front of house. “Come on in. Can I get you a coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? I can make you an espresso?”

Sure, Chef, just throw everything you can at the guy. He might as well have stripped down and tucked a sprig of mint behind his ear as garnish.

Qrow chuckled, a little lopsided smile settling onto his mouth. “Didn’t know I was gonna get the full-service treatment.”

Clover spread his arms out. “Can you blame a guy for trying to get a discount?” he said with a wink.

“Ah, I see how it is. Spend a few cents on drinks, make it back ten times over in food cost.”

“Gotta keep us in chocolate and vanilla beans somehow,” he said.

Qrow smirked. “Well, I hate to break it to you, Hot Cakes, but I’m not that easy.”

This guy knew his shit; Clover was impressed. The last sales rep kept trying to foist weird European fruit compounds on him. He didn’t need that kind of voice whispering in his boss’s ear. Gods, James would get obsessed with some miracle product or another every few months, convinced it would solve all their problems. More than once he’d had to talk the man down from abandoning a perfectly good fresh and local ingredient for something fancy and expensive.

“A man can dream,” he said. “What’ll it be? Hell, if it wasn’t inventory day I’d be making you breakfast.”

Oh, he wanted to make Qrow breakfast, all right. Preferably after they’d just spent all night…

“Uh, just regular coffee’s fine,” Qrow said, coughing into his elbow.

Fair enough. Winter would yell at him for using the espresso machine, anyway. No matter how thoroughly he cleaned it, she always seemed to _know._

Clover led Qrow out into the front, pouring him a cup from the carafe behind the counter. Ambitiously, he’d made a whole pot; inventory required a lot of coffee. Maybe if Qrow drank a little of it, he wouldn’t be up all night with the jitters.

“Cream and sugar?”

“If you’ve got it,” Qrow said, as if they weren’t standing in a bakery. He had the air of a man who didn’t like to ask for such things but also clearly diluted his coffee until it could legally be classified as ice cream base.

“Of course, it’s no problem,” he said, squatting down to raid the lowboy fridge below the coffee station. “Half and half, whole, skim, soy, almond or oat?”

He looked up at Qrow. His position put his face at approximately crotch height, though the door of the lowboy kept both of their virtues intact.

“Half and half,” Qrow said.

Nice. Clover had nothing against people who couldn’t or chose not to digest dairy. He simply could not date them. Their lives were too different. He wondered how Qrow felt about cheese.

He handed Qrow the carafe, then pointed over to the self-serve coffee station. “Sugar’s there. I think we have agave, too, or I have honey in the kitchen.”

Clover never bothered. He usually just took milk or cream in his coffee, if only because it was usually accompanying some sort of cake. He liked the bitter notes playing alongside the sweet. In his experience, people who sweetened their coffee tended to treat it like a whole meal.

Sure enough, Qrow put a healthy amount of sugar into his coffee, along with the cream. Maybe Clover would have to make that breakfast some time, anyway.

He gestured for Qrow to follow him into the office. Mind turned to business, he plopped down at his computer and pulled up their usual order list. Qrow settled into Winter’s chair, idly spinning around as he sipped his coffee. With most of the inventory fresh in his mind, he set to adjusting their order for the week.

“So! New year, new job?” he said, making a couple notes on their order. They were still flush with pistachio paste after Harriet’s…initiative, last month. No need for that.

“Yeah, first week.” Qrow said. “Oz is…a friend. I still don’t know what he was thinking, hiring me.”

It must have been a touchy subject, because Qrow clammed right up.

Clover spun around in his chair, tilting his head at the other man. “Well, I’m glad to have you. We order a lot, so I’m sure this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Qrow raised his coffee, with a huff of laughter. “Sure, Hot Cakes. Once upon a time, I’d have drank to that.”

Clover frowned. “You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I gave that up,” Qrow said, waving his other hand.

“I meant,” Clover said, one eyebrow raised, “Put yourself down. It’s your first week on the job, Qrow. You don’t even know what you’re capable of, yet.”

Plus…well. He didn’t want to be condescending, but how hard could it be, taking a few orders? It was nowhere near the pain of perfecting a French macaron, that was for sure. But that wasn’t entirely fair. There were clients like Clover, who knew exactly what they wanted and the exact amount they were willing to pay. And then there was everyone else. 

Clover hit print on his order. He handed the sheet of paper to Qrow, who regarded it with raised eyebrows.

“You really do order a lot.”

“We do a lot of volume,” Clover said. Frankly, this was low. It was January. “Looks like you just made your first big sale. I’ll see you next week?”

“I mean…” Qrow ducked his head. “You could just call it in. I only came by to introduce myself.”

“But if I called it in, how would you get your breakfast?” Clover asked, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Breakfast.”

“Next week?” he asked.

“Are you…asking me out?”

“No,” Clover said, “I’m asking you in. To my kitchen. If you want to. And _only_ if you want to. That order is standard, Qrow, it doesn’t change a lot from week to week.”

Qrow was staring at the order form as if it held answers. Clover gave him a little smile.

“If you don’t come by, I’ll call it in. No pressure,” he said. “But if you do…”

Clover winked at him. “…I’ll try to have a little something sweet for you.”


	2. Tongue-Tied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me what you really think,” Qrow said, amused. “I’m guessing you also have thoughts on red velvet cake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More baking shenanigans! 
> 
> We are finally free from the hellish spring quarter, so hopefully I'll have a little more writing energy for a bit. Next update will probably either be this or I'll Keep It With Mine, followed by Neverending Summer. We go in reverse order of plot importance, around here.

Qrow’s phone rang a little after noon on Tuesday.

He’d been running an artisanal soda tasting for the owner of a coffee shop, which had gone…not terrible, but certainly not great. He suspected it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t say _artisanal soda_ with a straight face. And also that he’d maybe implied that they could make the same product for a fraction of the cost with a couple fruit shrubs and a soda gun. But at least he’d left some samples, and maybe the fancy packaging would do the work for him.

In any case, he was about to take a break and grab lunch. The lunch break was a novel concept in and of itself; maybe he’d even see if the girls were free. He was just musing over food carts when the call came in on his work phone.

“Beacon Fine Foods, this is Qrow.”

Qrow had never mastered the art of the phone voice. He wondered if he sounded as bored as he was.

“Hi, Qrow? It’s Clover, from Ironwood Pâtisserie. We met last week?”

Fuck, it was that hot baker. The one with the _arms_. He probably had a great phone voice. Though…he sounded a little panicked, at the moment.

“Oh, hey Cloves,” he said, leaning against his car. He was a little out of breath. The old beater didn’t exactly scream _professionalism_ , so he tried to park a ways away. Which meant he’d just hauled eight bottles of overpriced soda back to his car. “You, uh…normally order tomorrow, right?”

He felt a little disappointed, that Clover had decided to call it in after all. Not that he’d been looking forward to visiting, or anything. He certainly hadn’t deliberately avoided scheduling anything for Wednesday morning just so he could linger over coffee.

Gods, Qrow was officially the loneliest man in Vale.

“Oh, I’m not ordering right now, I just have a quick question,” Clover said. “We’re still on for breakfast, right?”

Oh. Well, in that case.

“Funny, Hot Cakes, I can’t recall actually agreeing to breakfast,” he mused. “What are you making?”

“Anything you want,” Clover said, the flirtatious tone back in his voice. “Though…realistically, it’ll probably be on the sweeter side. I’m limited by inventory, here. Are you allergic to anything? Please don’t say gluten.”

He chuckled. “That I’m good on. But I get a rash from mango skins.”

“Really? Fascinating. Just the skin?”

“Yeah, I’m fine with the fruit itself. But if I touch the skin, game over. It’s got the same compound as poison ivy, and I get a bad reaction to it.”

“Huh,” Clover said. “I suppose that’s not the worst food allergy in the world. You can still eat it, though?”

“If someone else cuts it up for me. It sucks, it’s my favorite fruit.”

It had also ruined an entire vacation, once. It made a lovely picture, wandering through mango groves with Tai and Summer and Raven, plucking the ripe fruit from the trees and tearing into it with their hands. He’d never felt so alive. Until the next day, when his hands and arms bloomed a red rash and his entire mouth became an unattractive itchy scab.

It was sort of a metaphor for his early twenties.

“Huh,” Clover said, again. “Well, when mango season rolls around, I will gladly cut them up for you.”

Qrow thought about Clover, expertly wielding a paring knife, his hands nimble even as the muscles in his forearms tensed with—

“Uh, sure,” he said, with a cough. He glanced at his watch. “So, uh I’ll see you— "

“Wait! My question.”

“You…already asked two.”

“Those were personal, this is professional.” Clover said. The panicked edge was back in his voice. “I need to talk to you about Ruby.”

He blinked. That…was not what he expected.

“…Ruby?”

He was being pranked, wasn’t he? His family was pranking him. Either Tai had a big mouth or the girls had swiped his phone again and read all his texts. The punchline had yet to reveal itself, but the setup was all there: Qrow meets a hot guy. Qrow gets a dumb look on his face thinking about said guy. Qrow’s nosy brother-in-law notices. Something something something, teenage scheming, Qrow is somehow exposed or embarrassed.

“Specifically, do you carry it?”

Qrow frowned. “ _What?_ ”

“What?” Clover parroted, sounding confused. “Sorry. Ruby chocolate, do you sell it?”

Oh. _Ohhhhh._

He’d heard of the supposed ‘fourth chocolate,’ but it had mostly seemed like marketing. He wasn’t an expert in chocolate, though. Maybe it was decent, if Clover wanted it.

“Uh, let me check,” he said, pulling his tablet out of his bag. He searched the product list. “Uh…yeah, we’ve got that. You want me to bring a sample? It’s…”

He let out a low whistle. Fuck, that was pricey. He’d gotten the Kit-Kats once, for Ruby’s birthday. It had seemed worth doing, for the novelty. The chocolate itself was nothing to write home about. Kind of like…white chocolate with a slight tang.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clover swore. “I…don’t suppose you’ll be out of stock anytime soon?”

Qrow pulled up the inventory. “I mean, not a lot of people are buying it so we don’t have a ton. If you’re worried about availability— “

“Qrow, I fucking hate that chocolate and I will do anything in my power to prevent it from becoming part of our normal rotation.”

“So…you _don’t_ want me to bring a sample.”

Clover made some sort of enraged noise, on the other end of the line. “It’s a bullshit, overhyped, garbage chocolate, and I cannot have it messing with my food costs in _January_ , of all months. And just…why does it need to be red? What does red taste like?”

“Tell me what you really think,” Qrow said, amused. “I’m guessing you also have thoughts on red velvet cake.”

“Oh, you mean ruined chocolate cake?” Clover said. He was getting kind of adorably worked up, all his suave demeanor dissipating. “If I was to draw a correlation between shitty boyfriends and red velvet…here’s some advice, Qrow. If someone tells you they love cake but then the cake they love is red velvet, run for the hills because they are a fucking _liar_.”

Huh. So Clover was interested in guys. That was…not bad news.

There was a pause on the line.

“Um. Unless you like it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” Qrow said. “Seemed like something for kids.”

Clover sighed deeply. He almost sounded relieved. “Look, my boss is about to call you about ruby chocolate, and I would really appreciate it if you told him you didn’t have any.”

“You…want me to _not_ sell you something.”

“I’m prepared to order quite a lot of frozen fruit puree, to make it worth your while. It’s not seasonal, but at least passionfruit _tastes_ like something. And it’ll sell. Because apparently, _I’m_ the only one who gets excited about citrus season.”

Qrow wouldn’t say he got _excited_ , but he appreciated a nice satsuma as much as the next guy.

He sighed. It wasn’t a sale he’d counted on making, anyway. “All right, Hot Cakes, I’ll see what I can do.”

Besides, pissing off Jimmy was always a bonus.

“Qrow, you’re a truly magnanimous man. I knew I had a good feeling about you.”

“Uh, sure.”

That was a compliment, right? Qrow had no idea.

There was a rustling on the other line, then muffled voices. What sounded like an argument, then the telltale thump of boxes being shifted around. He could just make out Clover snapping at someone, and a deep female laugh.

“Everything okay over there?” he asked, amused.

“What? Oh, sorry Qrow. I’m, uh…hiding in dry storage. My cake baker just chose the _worst_ possible time to restock.”

Qrow blinked. He pulled his phone from his face, examining the number. The area code wasn’t from Vale. It was from Atlas. “Are you…calling me from your personal phone?”

“I _really_ don’t want that chocolate. But hey, now you’ve got my number!”

Qrow started feeling really warm for some reason. 

“I should probably get back to work, but thank you so much, Qrow. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Come hungry!”

He smiled, despite himself. “See you tomorrow, Hot Cakes.”

He stared at his phone like an idiot for a good thirty seconds after the line went dead. Why did he feel so accomplished for _not_ selling something to some…some practical _stranger_? Clover hadn’t meant all that about his number, right? It was just a byproduct of the situation. He certainly didn’t mean for Qrow to _use_ it. Right?

Whatever, no one was around to witness his shame. He added the number to his personal phone, under the name ‘Hot Cakes.’ Just…in case.

His stomach growled, bringing him back to reality. Right, lunch. He shot off a text to Ruby and Yang.

**_QB:_ **

**_you kids free for lunch?_ **

The reply was swift.

_RR:_

_ARE YOU COOKING???_

_OMG YES_

He rolled his eyes. This, again.

**_QB:_ **

**_cool it pipsqueak, I’m working_ **

**_food carts?_ **

_YXL:_

_are you paying???_

**_QB:_ **

**_obviously_ ** ****

_YXL:_

_then yes ;)_

_RR:_

_also yes!_

YXL:

_oh, I’m hanging with Blake, can she come?_

**_QB:_ **

**_what am I, a piggybank?_ **

**_you’ve got a job too now, firecracker_ **

**_girls like it when you pay for things_ **

_YXL:_

_asdfldsjkjhds_

_STOP_

**_QB:_ **

**_I will not stop. But yes, Blake is welcome and of course I’ll pay for her too_ **

_RR:_

_……………….I’m also hanging with Weiss_

_PLEASE, UNCLE QROW?_

**_QB:_ **

**_I see how it is now_ **

**_you kids only want me for my money_ **

**_typical_ **

_RR:_

_nooooooo we love you_

**_QB:_ **

**_you love my wallet_ **

**_little did I know all I had to do was sell out_ **

**_don’t get used to it_ **

The money was nice, but it was only a matter of time before he got fired for poor performance. Some things never changed.

****

_YXL:_

_Qrow._

_RR:_

_Uncle QROW_

He sighed. Somehow this had become a whole big thing. And he’d just been trying to have a nice lunch with his nieces.

**_QB:_ **

**_jeez calm down, Weiss can come too_ **

**_let’s all enjoy this steady paycheck while it lasts_ **

**_you kids are worth it_ **

_RR:_

_I bet you’re doing great, Uncle Qrow._

**_QB:_ **

**_yeah, yeah_ **

**_you girls need a ride?_ **

_RR:_

_yes please! Weiss and I are at the house_

_YXL:_

_Blake and I can meet you there in 20 min?_

**_QB:_ **

**_k, see you there. Ruby, I’m on my way_ **

_RR:_

_< 3<3<3_

Qrow chuckled, as he started his car. The nine to five life had its benefits, he supposed. Things were…easier, with the girls around. He should probably hide those sodas in the trunk before Ruby saw them, though.

* * *

Food carts were a family staple, if only because everyone could get what they wanted and no one had to argue about where to go. Tai was relentless in introducing new foods to the kids growing up, but it had its limits. At the end of the day, if given the choice, Ruby would always gravitate toward a giant waffle with whipped cream, and Yang would take a plate of smothered cheese fries or nachos. Qrow could swear he was the only one who actually surveyed the whole market every time.

But Yang was in a mood to impress, so she dragged Blake over to the good ramen place. Weiss did her best to not turn her nose up at the less-than-stellar sanitation, and got something healthyish from the fancy sandwich cart. Ruby stayed true to her roots, ordering some sugary monstrosity that probably involved fried dough.

“How is that _lunch_?” Weiss asked, as she joined them at one of the central picnic tables. “It’s practically dessert.”

“Anything is lunch if you eat it for lunch,” Ruby said, matter-of-fact. “What’d you get, Uncle Qrow?”

There was a new cart that specialized in seafood. He’d been sorely tempted by the shrimp ceviche, but he was waiting to ask around if it was any good before trying it. It looked a little…homey. With his luck he’d get food poisoning on his second week on the job.

“Just tacos,” he said, keeping an ear out for his number to be called. Ruby made a face.

“Check this out, isn’t this the biggest bowl of ramen you’ve ever _seen?”_

Yang and Blake walked over, plopping two genuinely huge bowls down onto the table. Yang’s had the standard toppings, while Blake’s was piled high with about five types of fish. She was practically drooling.

Qrow held his hand out. “Gimme my change.”

“We had exactly enough,” Yang said, innocently.

“Bullshit, I gave you forty. Hand it over, brat.”

Yang grumbled as she handed him the change. “So much for ice cream.”

The taco cart called his name, and he stood to retrieve his order. He smirked. “Tell you what, kid, if you actually manage to make that whole bowl disappear, I’ll buy ice cream for everyone.”

Ever since she was a kid, Yang’s eyes were bigger than her stomach. He said this as someone who’d cleaned up her vomit several times. One _particular_ story he was saving for a special occasion.

“Deal,” Yang said, smug.

Famous last words. Blake tapped out of her ramen with a groan, two-thirds of the way through. Weiss ate half her sandwich and wrapped up the rest for later. Ruby finished her waffle with a frankly alarming speed, then set to cheering on her sister.

“You can do it, sis! We want ice cream!”

“Ruby, you just had…“ Weiss scoffed. “Never mind.”

“Yang, are you okay?” Blake asked. “You can stop, really, I don’t know if I can eat ice cream right now, anyway.”

Yang grimaced, a pained smile on her face. “I feel great. Still hungry, really.”

Qrow leaned back, patting his stomach. “Man, that place makes the best tacos.”

“What kind of tacos did you get?” Blake asked, politely. Ruby frantically waved her arms no.

“Oh, glad you asked,” Qrow said. He looked directly at Yang as he pointed at one of the cardboard trays. “That one was beef cheek. That one was tripe. And that was tongue.”

Blake and Weiss looked a little green. Ruby was openly gagging. Yang paused in her consumption, breathing heavily.

“Oh, but the best thing is if you come on Sundays, when they have—“

“ _Fine,_ I give up!” Yang said, pushing her bowl away. “I can’t do it! Just stop talking about weird meats!”

Qrow chuckled. He actually wasn’t that into the eyeball, but the kids didn’t need to know that. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. 

* * *

Because Qrow was a giant softy, he did end up buying an ice cream cone for Ruby. She was the only one who actually had room, probably because her lunch had been mostly whipped cream. The rest of them just wanted a walk around the block, after the heavy lunch.

Tuesday was a market day, with half the block closed for additional vendors, and he found himself inexplicably drawn to a fruit stall. Front and center, in a massive display, were pints and pints of kumquats. The words ‘ _excited about citrus season’_ kept playing on repeat in his head. Before he could really process what he was doing, he bought a pint.

Yang frowned, coming up behind him. “What are those?”

“Kumquats,” he said. “It’s like a…tangy orange?”

“Hmm,” Yang said. “What are you gonna do with them?”

Qrow stared at the basket of bright, olive-shaped fruit. Ideas flitted around, like wisps of ash from burning paper. Pickled. Jammed. Tossed in a salad with bitter greens. Stewed and served over lamb.

Mixing sweet and savory had always been one of Summer’s favorite…

“It’s a gift,” he said. “For, um…a client. Who helped me out last week.”

“Oh, yeah?” Yang said, with a leer. “And what did this _client_ do, to _help_?”

“None of your— “

As if on cue, his work phone rang. He scowled, looking down. The contact info for Ironwood Pâtisserie came up.

“One sec,” he said to Yang. “This’ll be quick. Go flirt or something.”

He answered the call, waving her off. “Beacon Fine Foods, this is Qrow.”

“Qrow. I…it really is you. I heard you were working for Ozpin, but I didn’t believe it.”

Jimmy sounded exactly the same as the last time they’d talked, years ago. Over-worked, overly serious, a little out of touch. Qrow rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, what can I do for you, Jim? I’m having lunch with my nieces.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Jimmy said. He didn’t sound that sorry. “I suppose I’ll get right to the point. I want to put a ruby chocolate dessert on the menu, but no one else carries it. _Please_ tell me you do.”

“Let me check,” he said. He stated into nothing for fifteen seconds. “Sorry, Jimmy. Looks like you’re out of luck.”

The other man made a frustrated sound. “Then _where_ is Salem getting it? She must be importing from Atlas.”

“ _Salem?_ ”

“GRG has opened six new properties around the world just this year, she’s _got_ to be coming for Vale next. Whoever she has doing recipe development is some kind of mad scientist. Their desserts are all over social media. I need to be ahead of the curve, Qrow, or she’ll gobble us up just like every other independent bakery in her path.”

Huh. That was…actually interesting. And kind of alarming. GRG, Goddess Restaurant Group, was a behemoth in the food world. Restaurants, bakeries, you name it. Hell, they even had a handful of fancy grocery stores. If Salem got a foothold in Vale…it hit a little close to home, is all. He wondered if Oz knew about this.

But in the meantime, ruby chocolate was not going to solve Ironwood’s problems.

“Look, you know Oz, he’s obviously not gonna sell to her,” Qrow said. _That_ was certainly true, even if Qrow was fibbing about their own stock. “You can’t honestly think riding some Instagram trend is gonna save you. What happens when people eat it and it tastes like shit?”

“My team is very good, Qrow. I’m sure whatever they come up with will be excellent.”

“It tastes the same as white chocolate, and it’s twice the price.”

James sighed. “That’s what my head baker said. But Qrow— “

“I gotta go, Jimmy. Sorry about your chocolate.”

“…right. Well, thank you for trying.”

He didn’t sound convinced. James probably thought he was just too lazy to check, making the same mistakes all over again. He wouldn’t be wrong, to worry. Right about now, this time last year, he’d have been finishing up the lunch rush, his morning buzz fading, itching for it to slow down so he could grab a drink or three between shifts.

But that life was over, for better or worse.

Qrow looked over at his nieces and their friends, clapping for a busker with two missing teeth. Hopefully, for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qrow: So am I Anthony Bourdain in this scenario?  
> Me: No, you're a shitty writer. Maybe if Bourdain, like...didn't have any other skills.  
> Qrow: ...  
> Me: Whatever, you're about to get with a hot baker. Stop complaining.


	3. Salt, Fat, Acid, Yeet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vine tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware you were seeing anyone.”  
> “This is the second time we’ve met,” Clover said, dazed. “He’s in sales.”  
> “It seems as if you’ve already bought it,” Vine said, dry as a bone.   
> Flynt shoved a coffee cup at him. The foam on top had a four-leaf clover pattern. “There goes your man, boss. You gonna give it to him, or what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any of you who believed me when I said this would be 5-6 chapters deserve all that you get. Which is many more chapters.

Wednesday morning came, and despite coming in early to get ahead of production, Clover was putting out fires left and right by the time Qrow rang the bell at the back door. Literally.

“Qrow!” he said, as he greeted the other man. “Come on in, I was just—“

“Fuck fuck fuck! Fire!”

Well, that was Marrow. Clover rushed through dry storage into the kitchen, grabbing a bucket of baking soda as he did. Marrow was standing in front of the stove, batting at the flames with a pot holder. The smell of burnt sugar permeated the air, as the exhaust hood worked overtime. A pot of caramel sauce looked to be the culprit. Though if he’d seen it earlier, he probably would have advised against that _particular_ pot.

“Easy, Marrow,” Clover said, gesturing for the young baker to step aside. He sprinkled a thick layer of baking soda over the flames, effectively extinguishing them.

“Gods, I’m so sorry, boss,” Marrow moaned. “I just looked away for one second.”

“No biggie,” Clover said, clapping the younger man on the back. “The caramel’s redeemable, even. Just put it in a bigger pot, next time. Er, maybe let this cool a bit before you try to clean it up.”

No need for him to rub it in. Scrubbing blackened caramel from the burners would be punishment enough. As with most of Marrow’s mishaps, the clean-up was usually enough to keep him from repeating the same mistake. Or the personal injury, though Clover would have preferred it if Marrow had already come into the job knowing that hot things were in fact hot.

“Right, of course.”

“Good one, rookie. At least you didn’t burn yourself this time.” Harriet said, glancing up from the row of cakes she was building, assembly-line style. Marrow’s shoulders hunched in embarrassment. He sighed. Harriet was by far his fastest production baker, but she could be a little…intimidating, for new faces.

“Hare, weren’t you just telling me the other day how perfectly smooth the ganache has been, lately?” he said.

Harriet paused. “I thought you made it.”

Clover shook his head. “Nope.”

Marrow beamed with pride.

There was the sound of a throat clearing, and he turned. Qrow was leaning in the doorway between the main kitchen and dry storage, eyebrows raised. Clover grimaced. Great, now he smelled like fire.

“You, uh, seem a bit busier today, Hot Cakes. Is this a bad time?” 

“No, you’re perfect!” he chirped. “Um, your timing, that is. I was just about to take a break.”

Harriet shot him an incredulous look. That wasn’t fair. He took breaks. Sort of.

“Hey boss, the sheeter’s—well hello! Who’s this?”

Elm put her hands on her hips, giving Qrow a wide grin. Clover rolled his eyes.

“Everyone, this is Qrow, the new rep from Beacon. Qrow, this is Marrow, Harriet and Elm, three of my bakers. Our decorator, Vine, is out front. If I’m ever not here, Harriet does the ordering.”

Harriet gave Qrow a polite nod, tactfully not pointing out that Clover was never not there, and he only let her order so she could get a feel for it. Elm had no such qualms.

“Oh, so you’re Clover’s new sugar daddy,” she said, brightly. “Pssh, don’t worry. He’ll be here.”

“You were saying something about the sheeter?” he said, shutting that right down.

“Jammed again,” Elm replied.

Clover groaned. He did not need this. “Sorry, Qrow, one second.”

“Seriously, Cloves, I can come back later. Or I can just take your order and go, if you want.”

“Nah, this’ll be quick,” he said, gesturing for Qrow to follow him into the front. “You already came all the way out here; I owe you breakfast. You want coffee?”

Clover was _not_ waiting another week to talk to this gorgeous man. Plus, he’d come in at five in the morning to make crepes. It had been a toss-up, since he’d made the batter at home last night, whether he should cook them at home or in the bakery. But in the bakery he could work two pans at a time, vastly speeding up the process.

Unfortunately, that meant Elm had seen the whole thing. She threw him a wink as he walked past her into the front kitchen.

“Uh…sure. You make your staff call you Boss?”

“More like I can’t get them to stop,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Trust me, it’s not out of respect. Pretty much the opposite, actually.”

There were three main work zones to the bakery. Four, counting the dish pit. Starting from the back door, there was a small…break room was a generous interpretation. It was just a corner with a couple lockers and hooks for their coats. You could rest in there, technically, by upending a milk crate for your seat. Off of that, dry storage. Then the back bakery, which held the gas stoves and three stainless steel work tables, pushed together in a central island. All around the edges of the room was everything you might need to build the base of the intricate pastries Ironwood Pâtisserie was known for. This was where the bulk of the dessert work occurred, and was mostly Harriet and Marrow’s domain. Cakes got stacked, fillings got cooked, and eggs got tempered.

Between the back kitchen and the front kitchen was the walk-in, and then the front held Elm’s baking zone. This area had most of the equipment; the larger ovens, the proofing box, wooden benches for bread work, the dough sheeter and the big mixers. It was the domain of the breakfast breads. Rolling racks lined any empty walls, ready to receive freshly baked croissants, cakes and cookies. They weren’t big enough of an operation to have a proper bread program, but they made their own baguettes and brioche, to his pride. A highlight of his day was shaping baguettes with Elm.

After the front kitchen, a wide door led in two directions. You could either go left into the dish pit, or right into what James proudly called ‘the show kitchen’ but what everyone else called ‘the fishbowl.’ It was a small, well-lit, immaculately clean workstation with windows into both the front café and the sidewalk outside. Both customers and passers-by liked to pause in front of the windows, watching whoever drew the short straw work their magic. Vine was the only one who didn’t find it completely distracting, and since his decoration work was much sexier than, say, folding a giant batch of cake batter with your entire arm, he’d adopted it as his own space. Everyone else hated it, probably because Winter had banned cursing while inside.

And that was it. In the summer they had interns, because James placed a high value on teaching. They had a few people part-time, to fill in the gaps. But this was his core team.

Clover tended to bounce around, a jack of all trades. He liked to be where his people needed him. They were a remarkably small crew, for the level of output they had. Every single person was critical, and Clover knew all of their jobs. He never asked one of his bakers to do a task that he himself wouldn’t do.

They were headed for Elm’s station, but he led Qrow past that through the dish pit so he could secure the man a beverage.

He ducked his head out into the café, flagging down a barista. The tables were fairly full, but there was no line. People were lingering but not buying, a typical January day. “Flynt, this is my friend Qrow. Could you make Qrow a…what do you want? Latte? Mocha? Americano?”

“Er…I don’t wanna trouble you,” Qrow said, waving his hands.

“No trouble, for Clover’s friends,” Flynt said, with a laid-back grin. “Unless you mind me practicing my latte art on you.”

Qrow chuckled. “All right, kid. Surprise me, then. I’m not picky.”

Flynt gave Qrow a little nod. “Not bad, boss. You can keep this one.”

“You’re a gem,” Clover said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “You’re with me Saturday, all right?”

Flynt was a college student studying music, but along the way he fell in love with baking. He showed a lot of promise, and Clover wanted nothing more than to snatch him up full time, but he was also their best barista and the assistant manager for the front of the house. He’d had to fight Winter tooth and nail to score Flynt one shift a week in the bakery. If he did well, maybe it could be more.

He left Qrow chatting with Flynt while he went to fix the sheeter, but on his way back through the dish pit he paused. The dishes were piled high, and no one was washing them. He came back out to the front.

“Where the fuck is Kobalt?” he asked.

“Car troubles! He’s taking the bus, he should be here soon.”

Clover jumped at the high female voice behind him. Neon had a way of sneaking up on you like that.

“Okay,” Clover said, “What do you guys need?”

It was Winter’s day off. He felt an obligation.

“Twelve-ounce cups,” Flynt said, right away. He was already pulling an espresso, for Qrow. “We’ve been running loads when we can, but we’re screwed if we get a rush.”

“And spoons,” Neon added. “They’re really…spoon-y today. Pot de crème’s been flying.” She turned to Qrow. “ _You’re_ cute. In that old guy kind of way.”

“ _Be cool,”_ Flynt whispered to her.

“Flynt, he _obviously_ needs our help,” Neon whispered back. Then louder, “So Qrow, is it?”

“Down, girl,” Clover said. “Sorry, Qrow, I just need to help with the– “

“No, let me.”

And with that, Qrow disappeared into the dish station.

Clover stared, open-mouthed, as Qrow quickly identified the necessary cups. He sprayed them down, loaded them onto a rack, and had them running through the dishwasher in seconds. Before Clover could even say anything, Qrow was already starting to isolate the cutlery.

“Damn, boss,” Flynt murmured. “So, are you and him…?”

“None of your business,” he said.

“ _I think that means no,”_ Neon said, in a stage whisper. “Maybe you should wear something more _flattering_ , next time.”

Clover looked down at himself. Under his apron, he was wearing a salmon-colored tank top that read ‘MA’S SHRIMP SHACK’ in black block letters. He didn’t see what the problem was.

As soon as the rack of cups was done, Qrow loaded the cutlery. There was a practiced ease to his motions as he lifted the hood of the dishwasher, pulling out the cups and sliding in the next rack.

“Where do you want these?” Qrow said, carrying over the freshly clean load of cups. Flynt pointed at the drying rack above the espresso machine. Qrow unloaded the cups. And then he just started…doing all the dishes. Bus tubs were emptied, plates were scraped. All magnificently efficient. Clover didn’t think he’d ever been more attracted to a man.

Vine wandered over from the fishbowl. “New dishwasher?” he asked.

“That’s Clover’s new boyfriend,” Neon explained.

Vine tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware you were seeing anyone.”

“This is the second time we’ve met,” Clover said, dazed. “He’s in sales.”

“It seems as if you’ve already bought it,” Vine said, dry as a bone.

Flynt shoved a coffee cup at him. The foam on top had a four-leaf clover pattern. “There goes your man, boss. You gonna give it to him, or what?”

Clover could barely remember the last time he’d given it to anyone.

He cleared his throat, leaning in the doorway to the dish pit. Qrow paused, looking up. His nice clothes were a little damp from the spray hose. “We, uh…should be good for now, until Kobalt gets here. Thanks, you totally didn’t have to do that.”

Qrow shrugged, putting the sprayer back in place and drying his hands on his pants. “I was just standing around. Is that for me?”

“Hmm?”

Clover just stared like an idiot. Qrow walked up to him, a slight sway in his step. He drew in close, those crimson eyes trained on Clover’s. Gently, he took the coffee cup from Clover’s hands, warm fingers brushing against his as he did so.

“Clover,”

“Yes?”

A puff of laughter escaped Qrow’s lips, and he glanced down. “I meant the coffee.”

Oh. Obviously.

“Cute,” Qrow said. “It’s just like you.”

Clover’s brain melted.

Qrow lifted the cup to his mouth, gently blowing on the top before taking a small sip. “Mmm,” he said, eyes closing briefly in contentment. A pink tongue darted out to lick his lips. “That’s nice. A bit sweet, a little spicy. Just how I like it.”

He blew on the coffee again. Clover couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. “Is it hot?” Clover asked.

It looked hot.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Qrow said. His voice was a low, growling rasp. “Here, try it.”

Qrow offered the other side of the cup to him, at face height. His pale hands fully circled the ceramic; the option to take the cup was simply not there. Clover leaned in, slowly. Oh gods, this was happening. His lips parted.

“Aah!” Qrow chided, pulling Clover’s attention back up to Qrow’s face. The other man was watching him intently. “Blow,” he instructed.

Clover recognized an order when he heard it.

He drew in a breath, pursing his lips. Gently, he blew on the surface of the cup. He could _feel_ Qrow’s eyes on him, as he watched the foam part and the milky surface of the coffee gently ripple. When he felt he’d done a sufficient job, he glanced up at Qrow.

“Good,” Qrow said, sounding a little breathless. “Now, open.”

Clover did, leaning in to touch the rim of the cup to his lips. Qrow gently tilted the cup, just enough for Clover to take a small sip. He closed his eyes, as the warm liquid hit his tongue. The first thing he tasted was sweet, from their house-made chocolate syrup. Then bitter from the coffee. And below that, something spicy and a little smoky. Smoked chiles, he realized. Flynt’s signature twist on a mocha.

He’d tried all these things before, he’d written the _recipe_ for the damn sauce. But together, here, now, it felt completely different.

“That was…really good,” he said. His voice was a little rough. He licked the foam from his top lip.

“So,” Qrow said, smirking as he pulled back a bit. “What’s for breakfast?”

Clover had to physically restrain himself from just…getting on all fours. Right here in the dish pit.

“Follow me,” he said, leading Qrow out into the front kitchen. “Do you like crepes?”

“I fucking love crepes,” Qrow replied.

As they entered, he saw Elm with her arms crossed, tapping her foot while standing next to the dough sheeter.

Fuck, the sheeter.

The dough sheeter was Elm’s pride and joy, and it took up the entire length of the room when unfolded. At the center was a triangular base, with two long canvas conveyor belts extending from either side. Massive rollers sat where the canvas “ears” met the base, which allowed a baker to roll out dough quickly and evenly. Kind of like a giant pasta roller. Though Elm had muscles for days, making their croissants would be impossible without the sheeter. The fun part was that operating it was a bit like driving; move the handle to the right, the conveyor belts turned to the right. Likewise, to the left. The not fun part was that it broke constantly.

“Took you long enough, boss,” Elm said, with a leer. Clover rolled his eyes.

“Have you just been standing here?” he said. “You know what they say, Ederne. If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.”

“Seemed like it was dirtier out front,” she replied.

Clover examined the machine for a moment, leaning over the mechanism. Elm had already cleaned out the rollers and brushed off the belt. It _should_ be running. He tilted the handle to the right. Nothing.

“Huh,” he said. He peered over his shoulder at Elm.

“I tried to fix it myself, but she needs your touch.” Elm said, with a laugh. “Apparently a common problem.”

Qrow flushed, a light pink coloring his pale cheeks. Oh, so that was how it was gonna be.

Clover straightened. With a smirk, he turned around so the sheeter was to his back, catching Qrow’s eye. “Sometimes she just needs a little love tap,” he said.

He gave Qrow a wink. Without looking, he pounded the base with his fist, then flicked the lever to the right. The old girl kicked to life, conveyor belts flying smoothly.

“Qrow, I hope you’re hungry,” he said.

* * *

After all that fuss, the crepes came together pretty quick. He was frankly impressed with himself at the display.

He tilted the tray of now-warm folded crepes just a hair, so that it nicely offset the selection of toppings he’d prepared. There was chocolate-hazelnut spread (house-made, of course) and bananas. Then whipped cream and some lemon-vanilla marmalade he’d made last year that needed to get used up. For savory, some sliced ham and gruyere, and some sautéed mushrooms and spinach. All things that normally went into the quiche, repurposed.

“Not too shabby, Hot Cakes,” Qrow said, leaning over the table so he could take a picture. “And you just whipped this up in your spare time?”

“Yep,” he lied. He certainly hadn’t spent an hour flipping crepes before his shift. “The batter’s super easy, you just whiz it in the blender.”

Clover hated cleaning his blender more than anything in the world. Still, it was worth it.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Qrow said with a chuckle.

Clover gestured for him to make a plate. “Go on, once I put out the call it’s gonna get ugly.”

Qrow carefully constructed his crepes–two savory, one sweet, he noted. Clover made a few for himself, two sweet and one savory. He gestured for Qrow to follow him into the office.

“FOOD!” he shouted, as they walked through the kitchen.

The effect was instant. Harriet was somehow the first one to the table, even though Elm had been working right behind them the whole time.

“Look at you, boss, eating from a plate like a fancy man,” she said, digging right into the platter. Marrow was right behind her, his fork clashing with hers over the bananas.

Elm laughed, still at the sheeter. “Let them have their lunch, Harriet. Life is about enjoying the finer things!”

“Don’t you mean breakfast?” Marrow asked. “It’s like nine-thirty.”

“Rookie, some of us have been here since five,” Elm said, throwing him a grin. Clover ignored her.

Neon blew in, then, snagging about half the platter for the front of the house. “Kay thanks bye!”

Clover hastened Qrow into the office, pausing only briefly to make sure Vine had heard the announcement. He collapsed into his desk with a sigh. He loved his team, he really did, but they were exhausting.

“Is it always like this?” Qrow asked, settling into Winter’s chair rather more gracefully.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Sorry about the feeding frenzy, hope that didn’t put you off.”

Qrow snorted. “You haven’t seen brutal till you’ve seen servers go at a plate of misfired fries. Plus, I’ve got two nieces.”

Clover wasn’t sure which statement he wanted to unpack first. Qrow clearly had restaurant experience, not unusual for someone in food sales. The way he handled the dishwasher was evidence enough. Had he been front of the house, or back?

But the first time they’d met, Qrow seemed reluctant to discuss his past work. So instead, he dug into the nieces. “Oh? How old are they?”

“Seventeen and nineteen, if you can believe it. I hardly can. Feels like they were little girls just a second ago. Crazy to think they’re both in college, now.”

Clover tilted his head. “At seventeen?”

Qrow huffed a laugh, cutting into his crepe. “Ruby skipped two grades. The kid’s a genius. Sort of an evil genius, if you ask me.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to be proud of,” Clover said, grinning. Qrow would make a cute uncle. He could totally see that.

Qrow just ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. He took a bite, making a noise of appreciation. “Fuck, this is _good_. It’s got a little tang, is that buttermilk?”

Clover grinned. “Sourdough. Just a hint. I fed Kingfisher last night and was feeling inspired.”

“…Kingfisher?”

“My sourdough starter,” he said, his chest swelling with pride. “I’ve had her for…gods, over a decade, at this point.”

“You named your starter.”

“Is that weird?” he asked. “It’s alive, she should have a name. You get attached to something, when you feed it and take care of it for that long.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to be proud of,” Qrow repeated, with a wry smile.

Now it was Clover’s turn to blush. “Er…I guess it’s…that’s not as impressive as sending two nieces to college. I wasn’t trying to say that a microbial colony is equivalent to, uh…”

“I’m just messing with you, Hot Cakes,” Qrow said. “It’s a good crepe.”

They talked shop for a while, Qrow admitting that he had, in fact, spent time in a dish pit. But mostly he talked about his nieces. Lots of stories about the hijinks the girls and their friends got up to. Which prompted both of them to share stories from their wayward youths. By the time they actually swung around to business, half an hour had passed. Clover had been on salary for _years_ , but he could count on one hand the times he’d actually sat down for a proper lunch break. 

Qrow paused as he stood to go, Clover’s order for next week tucked in his bag.

“Oh, I, uh…I brought you something.”

He reached into his messenger bag, pulling out a perfect pint of kumquats. He held it out.

“Look, it’s…uh. It’s been kind of a rough start, at this job. It’s not really what I’m used to. Thanks for making me feel welcome, is all.”

Clover blinked, bewildered. “These are…for me?”

“Er, yeah. Just saw them and thought…you said you liked citrus season.”

He examined the kumquats. They were remarkably unbruised for having been stuffed in Qrow’s bag. Each olive-shaped fruit a perfect, brilliant orange pop. His mind was already turning with possibilities. Clover leaned over the outstretched basket, inhaling the bright scent. He plucked one out, biting into it right then and there. The flavor was intensely sweet, then bracingly sour. Just one bite had him feeling like the sun itself had slipped into his veins.

“Qrow, I…” he trailed off, at a loss for words. Qrow was watching him, blushing furiously.

“Just take it, okay?” he said, shoving the basket of kumquats into Clover’s chest. “I gotta go.”

Clover barely caught it, luckily managing to not spill any of the precious fruit. As Qrow was about to cross the threshold of the office he called out, finally catching his wits.

“Qrow!”

The man paused.

“Thank you,” Clover said. “I’ll…see you next week?”

Qrow hesitated, then barely nodded. “I…yeah. Sounds like a plan.”

Clover stood there for a good five minutes after he left, grinning like an idiot and clutching a pint of kumquats to his chest. Finally he popped the other half of the fruit in his mouth, placing the rest on his desk where it would be safe from snacky bakers.

Well. What should he make, next week?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I do not actually have a food kink, I just love food and double-entendres and when you put them together this is what happens???


	4. Mastering the Art of Foot, Meet Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It says _coming soon_ in the caption, Clover.” James said. His boss ran a hand through his hair. He looked about as tired as Clover felt. “And then there’s just a whale emoji! What does that mean? It is a code?”
> 
> Clover and Winter exchanged worried glances. “I wouldn’t put too much weight into the emojis, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's...a dumb, transition chapter. Idk.

A survey of foods Clover Ebi made to try to impress Qrow Branwen:

On the third Wednesday of the year, Clover made French toast with day-old baguette, served with jam and butter. He noticed how Qrow ate the custardy middle first and saved the crusty, toasted ends for last. Qrow brought him two bright Buddha’s Hand citrons.

On the fourth Wednesday of the year, Clover made biscuits and gravy, adding a bit of Kingfisher to give the biscuit dough a bit of sourdough tang. If Elm noticed he brought in fresh sausage for the gravy, she didn’t say anything. Qrow ate so much that he lingered in Winter’s chair, groaning through a food coma while Clover did paperwork. He brought Clover a whole basket of Meyer lemons, apparently from his brother-in-law’s tree.

“Fascinating, how you see the man for thirty minutes a week and somehow consider that a relationship,” Elm teased, as he inhaled the bright floral scent for the twelfth time that day.

“He brought me _fruit_ ,” Clover lamented, reluctantly going back to shaping baguettes. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to date a man with _fruit trees?_ ”

Across the workbench, Elm just laughed heartily. “You’ve going to have lemon-scented bread and dough-covered lemons if you keep picking them up and kissing them like that.”

“I am not _kissing_ my lemons,” Clover pouted. He could wait until he got home to do that.

“Qrow Branwen, purveyor of lemons and chocolate,” Elm said, tossing a bit more flour onto the bench with practiced ease. “Doesn’t that name sound kind of familiar?”

“He said he washed dishes for a while,” Clover said, shrugging. “Not sure what he did between then and now though. Maybe you know someone who knows someone?”

Clover was intimately familiar with Qrow’s name, but only because he was all but doodling hearts in the margins of his invoices. He was an unreliable source.

On the fifth Wednesday of the year, Clover was legitimately busy.

A bad cold had incapacitated both Marrow and Harriet, so he was trying to do triple-duty while also perfecting their Valentine’s Day specials. James had all sorts of crazy ideas he wanted to try, and only about ten percent of them were practical. And he couldn’t even get Flynt to help, because Winter had a family engagement and needed him up front on Wednesdays.

So when Qrow showed up with more lemons and a half-dozen _yuzu_ , be still his heart, all he could do was shove a cup of coffee and a slice of quiche from the case at the man, an apology on his lips as he ran around the back kitchen like a madman. The stainless steel tables in the center of the room were absolutely covered in projects in various stages of completion.

“I’m so sorry, Qrow,” he said, stirring two double-boilers of ganache simultaneously. “Everything is crazy today. I’d love to talk but I can’t stop moving. Do you want me to heat that up for you? Here, let me put it in the oven. How are you doing?”

“Easy, Hot Cakes,” Qrow said, with a laugh. Clover took a break from stressing out to admire the low rumble of his voice. “You don’t have to feed me every time. Especially if you’re busy.”

Ironically, it was slow as molasses out front. Everyone was still on their New Year’s Resolution diet. But Clover was understaffed. He plopped Qrow’s quiche onto a tray and stuck it in the already crowded oven, setting his timer for five minutes.

“I always have time for you, Qrow,” he said, wagging the timer at the other man before clipping it back to his apron. Qrow groaned at his joke. “You’re on timer three, remember that for me okay?”

Clover went to go back to his cake stacking, and Qrow leapt out of his way. They did the awkward back and forth dance for a moment, each trying to anticipate the other’s movement, before Qrow gave up and flattened himself against the wall.

“Uh, where should I stand?” Qrow asked. Clover pointed to a lone stool in the corner, next to a rack of cake boxes. It was where he made Marrow sit when the rookie got overheated and woozy in the summer.

“Please, sit,” he said. “Take a break.”

“You look like you could use one yourself,” Qrow said, obediently going to his corner.

Clover scooped cream cheese frosting onto the eight half-built carrot cakes in front of him. Before he could spread it out over the layers, a timer went off.

“Is that timer three?” Qrow asked.

“That’s timer one,” Clover said, without looking. “Uh...that’s crème brûlée. Beep. Beep. Beep. One beep, between the pauses. You want beep beep beep, beep beep beep.”

Qrow just stared at him. The timer was still going off.

“On a scale from one to ten, how crazy to I sound right now?” he asked.

“Beep beep beep beep beep.”

“Huh,” he said, stopping his timer and crouching to check the crème brûlée. “I’ll take that. Thanks, Qrow.”

He jiggled each custard to check the doneness. Annoyingly, the ones to the back of the oven were further along. He hefted the whole pan out, careful not to splash the hot water that surrounded each ramekin, and placed it on the metal table.

“So I made candied citron with that Buddha’s hand,” he said, as he carefully plucked the finished custards out. He cursed, shaking his hand out at the heat from the ceramic. “Came out—ouch!—came out pretty good.”

“Seems more like you’re making candied fingers from Clover’s hand,” Qrow said, watching him with an amused expression.

“I have asbestos hands, so I hope not. It would be highly toxic.”

“Too bad, I wouldn’t mind trying that.”

Clover’s brain temporarily short-circuited at the thought of Qrow putting his fingers in his mouth. A timer went off.

“Timer four?” Qrow said. Beep beep beep beep.

“That’s you, I think,” he said, concentrating on his task.

“I’m three,” Qrow corrected.

“Uh,” Clover thought back. “Meringue. That’s the meringue. It should be cool enough. Fuck, that needs to be piped right away.”

He smashed the button to turn off the timer, and another one immediately went off. Beep beep beep.

“ _That’s_ me,” Qrow said.

Clover looked around, his brain fried. The crème brûlée needed to go back into the oven. Qrow’s quiche needed to come out. The meringue needed to be piped before it could deflate. The ganache needed stirring and straining. The carrot cakes needed to get stacked and crumb coated before the frosting could warm up too much.

“Um,” he said, temporarily paralyzed. He met Qrow’s concerned gaze. Beep beep beep.

Qrow hopped off of Marrow’s shame stool, shooing him away from the oven. He plucked a couple hand towels from the stack on the table and gave Clover an expectant look.

Clover snapped out of it, turning off the timer and rushing over to his meringue. He shut off the mixer and pointed at the appropriate oven. “Right. Quiche comes out, just stick it anywhere you can find a spot. Then if you could cover that bain marie and stick it back in for ten minutes. In the still oven, not the convection.”

He tossed Qrow the timer, which he caught neatly. As Qrow followed his instructions, he pulled out a stack of clean sheet pans and lined them with parchment. By the time he had his piping bag prepped, Qrow was done.

“What’s next?” Qrow asked.

“You don’t have to—“

“Cloves. What’s next?”

This was against several regulations, but Clover was desperate and Qrow was fast.

“Can you give those a stir?” he said, pointing at the ganache. “Tell me if it’s smooth.”

Clover used some of the meringue to glue his parchment paper down, then starting piping the delicate fleur-de-lys decorations for the lemon tart. “And can you turn that top oven down to 200?”

“Got it,” Qrow said, making an adjustment to the oven temp and cracking the door to let some of the heat out. Clover concentrated on his piping while Qrow checked the ganache.

“Okay, these are both good. You want me to strain this?”

“Not yet,” he said, not looking up from his tray. “Just turn them off. Those can hang out for a bit. I need you to help me build these cakes so I can crumb-coat them.”

He instructed Qrow on how to fill and stack the carrot cakes, talking him through it with the occasional glance up from his piping. By the time he got the last tray of meringue in the oven, Qrow had assembled all the cakes, taken out the crème brûlée, and strained his ganache. He hadn’t even spilled chocolate on his nice shirt.

“Qrow, you’re a lifesaver,” Clover said, collecting all of their dishes and depositing them in the bus tub for Kobalt to come collect. He wiped down his station, then moved to the table where the carrot cakes were.

James came in while Qrow was labeling the tubs of ganache. He paused, surprised.

“Qrow,” he said. “Am I…paying you?”

“Hey, Jimmy. You’re paying Oz,” Qrow said, stacking the tubs neatly on the table. “And Oz pays me.”

Clover blinked, glancing up from the cake on his turntable. “Qrow was just helping me out, sir. I…didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“We have a mutual acquaintance,” James said.

Ozpin, of course. It didn’t seem like either man was all that excited to see each other, though. To be fair, it was hard to tell with James sometimes. But he certainly didn’t look thrilled at being called _Jimmy._

“It’s a small town, everyone knows everyone,” Qrow grumbled. Vale was not a small town, though it felt that way in the food industry sometimes. Maybe that was why his name rang a bell with Elm. “What’s next, Cloves?”

Clover looked at his still-massive production list, debating. “Let’s see…”

“Thank you, Qrow,” James said, crossing his arms. “But the last thing I need is a lawsuit if you get injured or poison someone. Clover, can I see you in the office for a moment?”

Clover gazed longingly at his carrot cakes, the cream cheese frosting already starting to get a bit goopy in the heat of the bakery. He could chill it for a bit, but then he’d just have to re-temper the frosting, and it would take even _longer._

“Sir, I really need to get these in the walk-in,” he protested, saying a little prayer to St. Honoré.

“This should only take a minute.”

“Jeez, Jim, can’t it wait?” Qrow snapped, retreating to the corner stool with his undoubtedly cold quiche and coffee. “Your boy’s flying solo, here. If you’re not gonna let me help, at least let him do his job.”

Over the years, Clover had developed a system for, well, _managing_ his boss’s more…demanding tendencies. James needed to feel heard, and acknowledged, before he would accept a dissenting opinion. He didn’t like getting railroaded. James Ironwood was a good man to work for; he didn’t have an ego when it came to accepting a good idea. But he _was_ a little sensitive about shutting down a bad one. Particularly if it was his.

So he wasn’t sure if it was something about Qrow, something about _James_ , or if it was just that Clover looked that pathetic frantically icing cakes, but what happened next genuinely shocked him.

“Right. Well, come see me when you get a chance.”

James cleared his throat, gave Qrow an awkward nod, then retreated back to the office.

Timer two went off. Beep beep, beep beep. In time with his pounding heart.

Clover was in love.

* * *

Clover was able to dodge his boss for two whole days, long enough for Harriet to come back to work and for Flynt to switch a few shifts to come help out. Harriet under the weather was still faster than most bakers, and with the chip on her shoulder at having been forcibly waylaid from her duties, the bigger challenge was keeping her from overtaxing herself.

Unfortunately, there was still no rest for Clover, because now it was the end of the month and he was facing down an impossibly long night to get inventory done and still have time to help Vine prep all their display cakes for Valentine’s Day. He wondered if Winter would be pissed if he just…slept on the banquette in the front window.

But the unavoidable task was the monthly meeting with James and Winter. There was the usual business; sales and labor costs and profit margins. January had been unusually kind to them this year. And then on to the next things; tweaks to the Valentine’s Day flow of orders, staffing needs, desserts that James wanted him to research for the spring. And then Clover’s least favorite part: marketing and social media.

Which consisted of James showing them a bunch of pictures from Instagram.

“Look at the location,” James said, stabbing the computer screen with his finger. “Vale. Is she _here?_ ”

The ‘she’ in question was Cinder Fall, an…influencer, he supposed. Whom James suspected of being sponsored by Goddess Restaurant Group. Clover didn’t really follow much of that. He was too busy. And frankly, it was a little unseemly for James to be paying so much attention to some 25-year-old who posted pictures of herself licking ice cream cones.

“Sir, I don’t really think that’s the point of the photo,” he said, gently.

The photo consisted of a pair of delicate hands cupping one perfect macaron. The flavor of the cookie was indeterminate, as the shell was colored in delicately swirling pastels. One heart-shaped sprinkle adorned the very center. The point, if he were to hazard a guess, was to get you to look at Ms. Fall’s breasts, which dominated the background of the frame.

Clover didn’t really follow much of that, either. He was too gay.

“It says _coming soon_ in the caption, Clover.” James said. His boss ran a hand through his hair. He looked about as tired as Clover felt. “And then there’s just a whale emoji! What does that _mean?_ It is a code?”

Clover and Winter exchanged worried glances. “I wouldn’t put too much weight into the emojis, sir.”

“I did consult Neon,” Winter said. “And she believes it indicates something along the lines of eating too much. But there was some disagreement among the staff.”

“You don’t think she really eats all that food she posts, do you?” James said, as if it were of vital importance.

Clover shrugged. He ate cake every single day and he’d never had a problem with his weight.

“I believe it’s called food porn, sir,” he offered. “If Salem’s planning a new venture, which I can’t say for sure is connected to this, there’s no way she’d open in February. She’d wait at least until the spring. All we can do is focus on our own quality, at this point.”

James shook his head. “Which brings me to the second issue: these bad Yelp reviews.”

He pulled up another tab, for their yelp page. The current top review was a one-star. Clover and Winter crowded around the monitor, reading.

“That can’t be right,” Clover said, frowning. “Whoever posted this probably just dropped their own hair in it.”

“This says it was _baked in_ ,” James said. “And there’s a photo.”

The rather damning photo showed a piece of baguette dangling from a long black hair. There was only one person in the bakery with hair like that.

“It has to be Marrow, again.” Winter sighed. “Wonderful. I’ll contact the reviewer and offer a gift certificate.”

“Don’t, they’re lying,” Clover said, insulted on his team’s behalf. “Marrow doesn’t do any bread work. It would be either me or Elm, and neither of us have hair that dark.”

“Regardless of whether or not they’re lying, we have to respond,” Winter said. “Accidents happen.”

Except they _didn’t_ , not like this. Clover ran the cleanest bakery in Remnant, and they all knew it. He looked up, meeting his boss’s eyes. The implication was clear.

Someone was trying to frame them.

* * *

If that wasn’t enough to occupy his mind, Winter caught his arm on the way out of James’s office.

“Clover. I have a…well, a favor to ask you.”

Winter hardly ever asked for favors. She was remarkably self-sufficient, which was the reason she was such a joy to work with. Clover’s ears perked up.

“Shoot,” he said.

Winter sighed as they settled into the little office that they shared. “It’s my sister, Weiss. She moved here for school. But she’s in a bit of a…financial bind, with our father.”

Clover had long suspected Winter grew up rich. She always looked put-together, even though he knew for a fact she spent half her day bent under tables picking up trash customers had left. Few trust fund kids left Atlas to be General Manager at a prestigious but tiny bakery on another continent. It made sense that family was a bit of a sore topic.

“What kind of a bind?” he asked. He grinned at his own rhyme. Gods, he needed to sleep.

“He cut her off,“ Winter said, bluntly. “I…need you to give her a job.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A job. Do you have one, for her? She’s highly competent.”

Clover pinched the bridge of his nose. “Winter, this is pure nepotism. Do you know how many culinary school grads are banging down my door every day? Plus you won’t even give me Flynt full-time!”

“Flynt’s my _best_ barista!” Winter protested. “Surely you’ve got room for someone who can be…I don’t know, assistant muffin scooper.”

His mouth twitched. “Uh-huh. And just what is the head muffin scooper doing while the assistant muffin scooper is scooping the muffins?”

“That was clearly a joke.”

Winter had a…funny sense of humor. In that it was rarely funny on purpose.

“Why don’t you just put Weiss on the register, move up Neon or Ivori, then give me Flynt?” Clover said, with a sigh. He didn’t need to be playing Tetris with his team right now. Especially if James’s suspicions were correct.

Winter fidgeted. It was unusual, for someone so composed.

“I just feel that customer service would be…difficult, for Weiss.”

“Difficult.”

Winter gave him an icy look. “You don’t have to deal with people, back there.”

“You’re right, I only deal with extremely laid-back individuals like James and my entire team.”

Winter glared.

“All right, sorry,” he said, hands up. “Look, I get what you’re saying about customers, I really do. But I have to give priority to the person who was there first. Would it be a crazy thought to put Weiss in the dish pit?”

“The dish pit. You want me to tell my little sister to wash dishes.”

“I washed dishes every summer when I was a kid,” Clover said. “And we all hop back there when we need to. It’s not glamorous, no, but it’s a decent job. Kobalt can start training on the counter, a couple days a week, and Weiss can take a couple dish shifts.”

Winter considered the proposal. She sighed. “Very well. I suppose it would be good for her. I’ll check everyone’s availability, then we can adjust the schedule.”

“Great!” he said. One less problem. Or one more, but a resolved one. Or one that would require more work, as much as he enjoyed doing the schedules with Winter. Which he weirdly did.

Elm burst in to the office then, her phone held triumphantly in her hand.

“I KNEW I recognized that name. Boss, your boyfriend’s a celebrity chef!”

Clover blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t aware you were seeing anyone,” Winter said, awkwardly. “Congratulations.”

“I’m not,” he said.

Elm snorted, shoving her phone into his face. On it was…it was _Qrow_. A rather young Qrow, in chef’s whites, with three other similarly dressed people, one man and two women. And a younger but no less distinct Ozpin.

Clover’s mouth dropped open. The photo was from an old… _really_ old article in Gourmet magazine. So old that Gourmet had been a thing. It was all about…

The Restaurant of the Year. Stark. Head chef, Summer Rose. Sous chef, _Qrow Branwen._

**_How Stark’s Bright Young Things are Bringing Old Flavors to New Light_ ** ****

“That’s Qrow!” he said. Like an idiot.

Winter peered over his shoulder. “You’re dating _Qrow Branwen?”_

“You’ve heard of him?” Elm asked, surprised. “He was a bit ahead of your time.”

“I didn’t _hear about him_ ,” Winter ground out. “I _know him_. He’s a drunk. He’s been fired from half the restaurants in town.”

Clover frowned. That…didn’t sound like the Qrow he’d met. In fact, he’d kind of gotten the impression that Qrow didn’t drink at all.

“How do you know Qrow?” he asked.

“Through my sister,” Winter explained. “She’s friends with his nieces.”

“Oh, Ruby and Yang?”

Winter blinked, surprised. Gods, maybe Vale _was_ a small town. Everyone did know everyone. He supposed compared to Atlas, it was. Awkward connections like this had never happened _there,_ no matter how much he’d…secretly wanted them to. One in particular.

“Yes,” Winter said. “You’re really dating Qrow?”

Reality rushed back to him, and his cheeks flushed. “No! Qrow’s the new sales rep for Beacon Fine Foods. I’ve really only talked to him a handful of times. I had no idea he used to be a _chef_ , though.”

“Sounds like he was a big deal,” Elm said, scanning the article. “He took over as head chef for Stark at some point. He’s cooked at the Signal Hotel, too.”

“Gods, we went there for my mom’s birthday,” Clover moaned. “The _desserts.”_

Elm laughed. “I don’t think he did the desserts, boss. Seems more like a meat kinda guy. Apparently, he brought offal into the mainstream.”

“Really?” Clover said, swinging around to his computer. Well, this was about to be his day. Just internet stalking his crush. “Fascinating!”

“I can’t condone this reckless…googling,” Winter said, standing primly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go check if anyone’s left dirty diapers in the bathrooms.”

“Bye!” he and Elm said simultaneously, both entranced by the computer.

* * *

Clover was glazing chocolate bombes the next time Qrow came in. He _also_ had not yet had a day off. He was a little delirious. Clover looked up from his pitcher of ganache, grinning like an idiot.

“Qrow Branwen, you sly dog. You didn’t tell me you used to work the hot side!”

Qrow scowled at him. “Who told you that?”

Clover turned back to his tray, concentrating on pouring the glaze before the chocolate could set. “Winter, for one. And about half my team. You have quite the reputation, apparently. I googled you. Stark, seriously? Gourmet’s best new restaurant, Food and Wine’s 30 under 30, five knives from Maria Calavera? And here I thought that old broad was impossible to please.”

“Shut up already, jeez,” Qrow said. “It’s not a big deal. It’s closed now, anyway.”

“Gone but not forgotten,” Clover said, wistfully. “I never got the chance to eat there, but I’ve heard the stories. People say you guys changed the game. It makes sense, I guess. No wonder you know so much about ingredients. You worked at Signal too, right?”

“For a while,” Qrow mumbled.

“Ah, _that_ I did get to,” Clover said. He glazed the last bombe, neatly swiping the last drips of chocolate from the mouth of the pitcher before it could fall and ruin his work. He gave the bottom of the tray a few good taps, then transferred the wire rack holding the bombes to a clean tray. “I think it was after your tenure, though. It was great! Bit more traditional, but very well-executed. The desserts were amazing.”

“That’s all Tai,” Qrow said, staring into the chocolate glaze like it held the secrets of the past. “My brother-in-law. He was at Stark too, but he’s at Signal now.”

“Well, tell him his Meyer lemon pudding cake was mind-blowing,” Clover said, scraping the extra ganache into a strainer set over a fresh container. He froze, thinking about Qrow’s gifts. “Oh, _gods._ That’s who you got the lemons from, isn’t it? Your brother-in-law with the lemon tree is _lemon pudding man???_ ”

“…yeah,” Qrow said, reluctantly. “I can…try to get you the recipe.”

“Qrow,” he said, giddy. “I could kiss you, honestly. That cake changed my life. Gods, I wish I could have eaten there when you were head chef.” 

Qrow sighed, following him as he carried the tray to the walk-in. “Yeah, well now I sell fancy chocolate, so…”

“And you’re my favorite fancy chocolate salesman,” Clover said, sliding the tray onto a speed rack. As he left the walk-in, he grabbed an apron from the stack next to the door, handing it to Qrow. “Well, suit up. I’ve been here since five and I’m starving.”

Qrow just stared at him.

“Would you prefer a chef’s coat? I don’t care for them but Vine insists we stock them. There should be some in the office if you want—“

“You want me to cook for you?”

Clover blinked. “Of course I do. This whole time I’ve been making an ass out of myself cooking you breakfast, not realizing I had the _head chef from Stark_ in my kitchen. Come on, let’s go raid the walk-in.”

“ _I don’t cook anymore_ ,” Qrow snarled, throwing the apron back at him. “And Summer Rose was the real head chef. I just took over, and ran it into the ground. Do you want to make an order, or what?”

Clover’s heart dropped out through his stomach. All of Qrow’s usual warmth had fallen away, and instead there was just…anger. And hurt, and fear.

“O-oh,” he said. “Qrow, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up any—“

“You know what, just send me an email,” Qrow said, stalking out. Clover flinched, as he heard the back door slam.

Well, shit. That had to be a record.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Qrow: I am ANGERY
> 
> Clover: You realize this only makes you hotter, to me.


	5. Qrow Branwen's Kitchen Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just wanted to go back to the way it was before. He didn’t need to _actually date_ Clover. Why date, when he could silently pine all week, gather some exotic citrus, present his humble offering and if it was pleasing enough to the baker then he got to taste Clover’s biscuits? It was basically the perfect relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyyy here's some food (softcore) porn.

Taiyang saw through his shit right away.

“You messed it up with the hot baker, didn’t you?”

Qrow groaned. His family knew him too well, was the thing. As much as he tried to hide it, Tai and the girls could read him like a book. If it wasn’t Qrow’s dopey face getting increasingly idiotic every week as Wednesday drew closer, getting caught sneaking into the Xiao Long backyard under cover of dark to shove lemons in his backpack had up and sealed the deal. Tai demanded answers. Ruby and Yang demanded bribes.

It set an impossible expectation. Tai was elated. Doubly so that it was a _baker_ that had got him all…gifty. Clover had not only received ‘The Good Lemons,’ but Tai was already earmarking the portion of the plum harvest that would go to him. In June.

 _‘If the raccoons don’t get them first_!’ Tai had shouted, shaking a vengeful fist into the night.

So he felt guilty for more than one reason tonight, when his brother-in-law caught him trying to surreptitiously scatter those lemons back amongst the grass. Qrow really needed to work on his sneaking.

Qrow glared at him, from where he was crouched in the dirt. “Why do you assume that _I’m_ the one who blew it?”

Tai just pinned him with a look and propped open the back door.

And now Qrow was lounging on the couch dramatically, eating popcorn for dinner for the third time that week.

“He found out I used to be a chef. He wanted me to _cook_ with him.”

“And you did?” Tai asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Qrow grabbed a handful of popcorn. “What do you think,” he said, before shoving it in his mouth. It wasn’t even good popcorn, it was _microwave_. Which he was eating _from the bag_ , much to Tai’s dismay.

“…and you declined politely, explaining the reason why?”

Qrow screamed into a pillow.

“Hey!” Tai said, snatching the pillow away. “Watch it with the butter fingers.”

_“That’s what Clover would say if I cooked for him!”_

“Oh, shut it.” Tai insisted. “You are _not_ cursed. Everyone loses their mojo at some point, Qrow. You think I don’t still curdle my crème anglaise sometimes?”

Qrow blinked. “Do you?”

“Eh-heh…” Tai rubbed the back of his head. “I mean, my staff usually makes it now. But I’ll have you know I’m _very_ supportive of their mistakes.”

“Great,” Qrow moaned. “I’m intern-level. I’m the kid who gets a career-ending can opener injury on day two. I await the Michelin stars.”

He shoved another handful of popcorn in his mouth, unintentionally wiping his hand on his pants as he reached for a side-towel that wasn’t there. Fuck. Tai eyed where his fingers were dangerously close to the upholstery. He huffed, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in Qrow’s face.

“Would you use a napkin already?”

Qrow rolled his eyes as he took it. “Pastry chefs are so anal.”

Oh, no. Now he was thinking about Clover’s ass. How did it look so good in _checks?_

Tai’s face lit up and he snapped his fingers. Apparently, he’d had the same thought and come to the opposite conclusion.

“Qrow,” Tai said. “He’s a _baker_. Let me help you with this.”

“Why is it important that he’s a baker? It’s all food industry.”

“Said like a chef,” Tai said, with a wave of his hand. Qrow winced at the title. “You said it yourself. Bakers and chefs are _not_ the same. The psychology is fundamentally different. Bakers are normal, for one.”

Qrow frowned. “And chefs aren’t?”

Tai rolled his eyes. “Chefs are weird little night gremlins who are socially incapable of interacting with anyone besides other chefs. They’re the outcasts of society, typically emotionally constipated. They enjoy being as disgusting as possible and they communicate mostly in dick jokes.”

Qrow opened his mouth, about to be offended. Reconsidered. Shut his mouth.

“I mean, _I_ like all that stuff, obviously,” Tai said, patting him on the shoulder. “Pastry chefs can live in both worlds. I know how to think like a line cook, so they won’t mess up plating my desserts. But your morning boy is coming from a different place.”

“So it’s hopeless,” Qrow said, staring up at the ceiling miserably. “We’re too different.”

Clover seemed so well-adjusted. Even when he was busy, which appeared to be always, he had a grace about him. An optimism and generosity. It was infuriating and enchanting at the same time. Clover probably had a retirement account. Qrow panicked and threw fruit.

“No,” Tai said, flicking him on the forehead. “You just need to get over yourself. And I know just the recipe!”

Qrow glared. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”

“It starts with a stick of _un-_ salted butter…”

“Please stop.”

“A cup of sugar…”

“Tai.”

“And a dash of vanilla. Mix together until _light and fluffy—_ “

“Okay,” Qrow said, standing. “This conversation is over. Thanks for the popcorn.”

He grabbed one last handful of popcorn and threw the greasy bag back at Tai, who caught it with a yelp of protest.

“Don’t you want to hear the secret ingredient?” the blond teased.

“Is it love,” Qrow asked, shoveling the popcorn into his filthy maw.

“It’s lube.”

A popcorn husk lodged itself in the back of his throat. Qrow coughed, glaring. Tai smiled innocently. He should have spit the whole mouthful onto the pastry chef’s perfect upholstery.

“Seriously, just apologize and ask him out,” Tai said. “Bakers are _normal._ They respond well to open and honest communication.”

Great. His specialty.

Normal didn’t really _cover_ the way Qrow felt around Clover, but he supposed it was worth a shot. He immediately started sweating, thinking about it. “What if instead of doing that, I pretend like nothing happened?”

He just wanted to go back to the way it was before. He didn’t need to _actually date_ Clover. Why date, when he could silently pine all week, gather some exotic citrus, present his humble offering and if it was pleasing enough to the baker then he got to taste Clover’s biscuits? It was basically the perfect relationship.

Tai crossed his arms.

“So…that’s a bad idea?” he ventured. “Ugh, what if he says no?”

Then Qrow would have to die. And quit his job. In that order.

“He took a lunch break for you?”

Qrow nodded.

“Then he won’t say no. That’s practically a mating call. He wants you to whip his cream, if you know what I’m saying.”

Well…now there was that image. Maybe Tai was right. Clover _had_ ordered a shit-ton of product, the day of his little freak-out. He must have felt bad.

“Ask him out,” Tai urged.

Qrow sighed. “Fine.”

“Friday.”

“Uh, I see him on Wednesdays.”

Tai snorted. “I meant, when you see him on Wednesday, ask him out for Friday night. It has to be Friday.”

Qrow narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“No reason!” Tai said brightly, shoving him out the door. “Good luck, my little night gremlin!”

Qrow made his way into the darkness where he belonged. Him and the raccoons. Halfway down the walk he paused, turning back to look at Tai. He thought about Tai’s chef vs. baker classification.

“You know, Summer wasn’t really any of those things.”

Tai smiled, sadly. “No, she was…she was special.”

“Yeah,” Qrow said.

They shared a moment of silence, caught in memory.

“Except for the dick jokes,” Tai said.

“Oh yeah,” Qrow replied. “That filthy brat.”

* * *

The bakery was bustling when Qrow came by, with a line spilling out the door. He almost turned on his heel and walked right back to his car. But Tai’s stupid voice kept nagging him, in the back of his mind. Telling Qrow how _proud_ he was, and how _far_ he’s come.

The jerk.

So with some trepidation, he made himself walk around back and ring the doorbell.

…and was shocked to see Weiss Schnee on the other side, in an apron.

“Qrow?”

“Weiss?”

There was a brief moment where they both stared in surprise, and then Weiss narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t aware that you needed to make personal visits to your customers.”

“Uh…” he said, belatedly hiding the bag of lemons behind his back. “I didn’t know _you_ worked here, kiddo.”

She put a hand on her hip. “It’s my second day. What a coincidence. Did someone put you up to this?”

Qrow blinked. What was stuck in _her_ craw? “Whoa whoa, calm down Weiss,” he said, hands out. “I’m not trying to spy on you or anything. I’m just seeing a friend who works here.”

The bag of lemons dangled from his wrist, incriminating. Weiss looked down. She put a hand to her mouth, in surprise.

“Oh! _Ohhhhh._ Sorry, I’m just…well, I’m sorry. So _this_ is the place, hmm? Who are you flirting with, is it Mr. Ironwood? I don’t think he’s going to pick up on that tactic.”

“Excuse me?!” he sputtered. “I’m not…you think I’m into _Jimmy?_ ”

Weiss raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Please, Qrow. There’s no use hiding your fruit crush.”

These kids. It never ended.

“Fine. It’s Clover.”

“Oh!” Weiss said, again. “Then yes, fruit will work nicely.”

All traces of attitude toward him dissipated, and Weiss plopped down on a milk crate in the corner of dry storage. Next to her was a case of limes, along with a microplane grater and a half-sheet tray of mottled zest, which she perched on her lap. She picked up a lime and started violently rubbing it against the grater. Qrow winced at the rough treatment.

“What, uh…what are you up to there, kiddo?”

“I am zesting all of these limes,” Weiss said, determined. “And I will be known as the dishwasher who got the _most_ zest.”

Qrow peered over her shoulder. “You’re getting too much of the white part.”

Weiss balked. “What?!”

He held up one of the less-mangled fruits. “See where the green turns to white? You only want the green part, on the very outside. That’s where the flavor is. The white part is just bitter. Be a little gentler. It’ll be easier on your wrist, too.”

Weiss looked briefly stricken, then she set her jaw in focus. “Thank you. From now on I will be the dishwasher who is the _most gentle_.”

Qrow chuckled, gently cuffing her on the shoulder. “Knock yourself out, Ice Princess. They don’t need you in the dish pit? Seemed busy.”

“It’s all to-go orders,” Weiss said. “Everyone’s saving their calories for the weekend. Winter said she would call me if she needed me. Go on back, Clover’s in the bakery. Careful though, he seems busy."

When was he not?

Qrow made a mental note to avoid the Ice Queen; no fancy coffee for him today. No matter, he had other business.

True to form, Clover was doing about five jobs at once when he came in. The bakery’s telephone was cradled between his shoulder and his ear. But he was turned toward the center trio of stainless steel tables, somehow managing to spin a decorating turntable with the arm that was propping up the phone while perfectly smoothing chocolate ganache onto a smaller cake. Periodically, he put down his spatula and made a note on a clipboard on the wall behind him.

“Uh-huh,” Clover said, spinning the turntable rapidly to create a spiral pattern up the side of the cake. “Well, we don’t have fresh peaches this time of year. We do have raspberries and strawberries, but they’re imported from Mistral. Is that okay?”

He had the universal tone of someone talking to a pain-in-the-ass customer. Qrow shuddered. This was why he could never be a server. He didn’t have the patience for this shit.

Clover turned to make a note on the clipboard, and that’s when he finally noticed Qrow standing there. His jaw fell open and he fumbled the pen, which rolled under the table behind several storage bins.

“One second, ma’am, if you could…one…one second…!”

Clover crouched, arm extended, trying to feel for his pen while still keeping the phone to his ear and maintaining eye contact with Qrow, all while grinning ear to ear. It was ridiculous and stupid and somehow completely charming.

Qrow rolled his eyes, shooing the baker away and retrieving a spare Beacon-branded pen from his bag. If there was one thing in this universe he could provide, it was company swag. Clover shot him a thankful look, moving to take it. Qrow held it out of reach, pulling the clipboard from its hook on the wall and gesturing as if to take dictation.

It only took a second of hesitation before Clover started icing cakes again. “Right ma’am, let me just recap that,” he said. Qrow held his pen poised. “We’ll do a 6-inch lemon chiffon cake, but with cream cheese frosting instead of buttercream, and fresh raspberries mixed in with the lemon curd.”

He raised an eyebrow, and Qrow nodded an affirmative as he jotted down the order.

“Uh-huh. And the writing on top…how would you like us to spell pookie?”

Qrow snorted.

Clover smirked back at him. “…right. Okay, let me read that back. ‘ _Love and hugs, Pookie. P-O-O-K-I-E.’_ Got it.”

He flashed the order form to Clover. The baker gave him a nod of confirmation.

“Okay, ma’am, we’ll have that ready for you Friday at 10 am. Sounds good…you too. You too. All right, you have a great day now. Buh-bye.”

Clover spun around and slammed the phone down in the cradle. “ _Fuuuuuuuuck._ ”

“Rough day, Hot Cakes?"

Clover smiled at him, bright and dreamy. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his apron was smeared with chocolate. In other words, he was as ridiculously handsome as always.

“Rough week, I’m afraid. But, uh…better, now.”

Well. Time to face the music. Qrow took a deep breath. “Look, I, uh…about last time.”

“Corner!”

Only pure instinct saved him from being bowled over, as Harriet whirled into the back bakery with a speed rack of cookies. He leapt back against the wall, while Clover pressed himself against the metal table. When she had passed between them, Clover chuckled.

“Good instincts. You know your lingo in the _—_ _shit_ , I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like _—_ “

“Nono!” he said, “You’re right. I do…I did, at least. That’s what I wanted to talk _—_ “

“Hot behind!” Marrow called, sliding behind Clover with a hotel pan of bread pudding. “Er, I mean…behind you, boss, with a hot thing. I’m not trying to say anything about anyone’s _—_ “

“Marrow,” Clover warned, “Just focus on putting the hot thing _down_ , carefully.”

“Got it!” the young man squeaked.

“No one cares what you think about their ass, Cookie.” Harriet said. Speaking of cookies, she was stacking pink-iced ones with a frightening swiftness, depositing them in perfect columns in clear cello bags. And pointedly trying not to eavesdrop on them.

“ _Cookie?!”_

“Rookie, cookie, same thing.”

“Um,” Qrow said. “I know I say this every time, but is this a bad…?”

“No!” Clover said, his hands flying over the turntable. He took a quick look around the room. Marrow averted his eyes. Harriet rolled hers. “Um, meet me in the dish pit in five minutes?”

“Right!” Qrow said. He suddenly remembered the citrus dangling from his wrist. “Uh, these are for you. I know you liked the… _shit_ , I meant to get that fucking recipe from Tai.”

Clover laughed, slipping the bag from his wrist. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I can think of more than enough uses for these.”

He plucked a lemon from the bag, inhaling deeply. Qrow nearly met his maker.

“Mmm, it’s so floral” Clover said, eyes closed.

“Knife!” Marrow called.

Clover’s eyes flew open. “Five minutes?”

He thought of Weiss’s case of limes. Yeah, that would probably be their best bet. He went and checked on her real quick before heading over, making sure she wasn’t gonna give herself a cramp or something. And then he went to the dish pit, and waited.

“Hey Qrow!” Elm said, ducking in to deposit a large mixer bowl and a dough hook. “Can you do this one first, I need the hook back.”

And then she was gone.

Qrow threw up his hands and started doing dishes.

Like Weiss had said, it was pretty sparse in there. But dishes, at least, he could do without incident. And there was something soothing about the rhythm. Rinse, stack, slide. Pull the lever, start the next round. Elm came to get her dough hook, giving him a thumbs up.

He almost didn’t hear Clover come up behind him. Almost.

“You know, I’m really not trying to wring free labor out of you,” the baker said, depositing an emptied tub of chocolate ganache filled with all his tools onto the prep table across from the sink.

“It’s nothing,” Qrow said, holding his hand out for Clover’s dishes. The other man waved him off.

“Leave it for Weiss, Winter will have my ass if I take it easy on her.”

He leaned against the table, all relaxed grace once again.

“How’s she doing?” Qrow asked. “My, uh…my nieces are pretty close with Weiss.”

He wasn’t supposed to…Weiss would be pissed if she knew he was asking after her. But he couldn’t help it. He’d seen what she’d been through, and his heart ached for her.

Clover raised his eyebrows. “I heard. Not that…I wasn’t gossiping about you, Winter just mentioned…um. She’s doing well. It’s clearly an adjustment, but she works hard. I think Marrow’s a little _too_ excited about not being the lowest on the totem pole, but she’s tough. She’ll be assistant muffin scooper in no time.”

Qrow frowned. “What?”

Clover laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me, I’m sleep deprived. What did you want to talk about?”

Now it was his turn to be awkward.

“Oh. Uh…sorry I freaked out. Last week.”

Clover shook his head. “No need. I’m sorry I dug into your past.”

“No, I…” Qrow sighed. “Yeah, I used to be a chef. But I’m not…I was never really into the fame. And I…when I try to…”

He paused, struggling to explain. Clover reached out, placing a hand on his arm.

“Qrow, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me everything. Just…now I know, that you don’t want to cook. I won’t ask again.”

He was so earnest, so easy to talk to. Qrow longed to spill his life story.

“I really liked it, though, when _you_ cooked,” he blurted, against his better judgement.

Clover blinked. “You…you did? I mean, I’m not…I’m not a chef or anything, I only really cook for myself.”

“Trade secret, Cloves,” he said, with a laugh. “Chefs? Don’t cook shit at home. Anyone who offers to make dinner is automatically king. You don’t go home on your days off and make cake, do you?”

Clover blushed scarlet.

“Oh, gods, you _do,_ ” he said, incredulous. “What was it this week, Hot Cakes? A croquembouche?”

“For your information, I do not _remember_ my last day off,” Clover said, crossing his arms. “But I probably just fed Kingfisher to keep her alive and then made crackers with her entrails.”

“How wholesome.”

“There was rye involved, yes.”

Qrow laughed. “Look, uh…let me make it up to you. How about dinner, instead?”

Clover flushed slightly. “Well, I…sure, that would be nice, but I usually leave around four or five, and that seems a little early for dinner. And then the cleaners come in not long after and I really don’t want to get in their way.”

Qrow rolled his eyes. “No, I meant I could _take_ you to dinner. Outside.”

“Outside?”

Clover blinked at him, wide-eyed, like a fawn in spring. Oh, gods. Tai was right. Bakers _were_ different. They were _way too fucking cute._ Qrow had the overwhelming urge to pull Clover’s pigtails.

“You…do know about the outside, don’t you?” he teased. “It’s got all kinds of cool stuff. Cars, food, people. They’ve got these _moving pictures_ , it’s the wildest thing.”

Clover snorted. “All right, smartass. I do get outside. I’m just…surprised, I guess.”

Oh, no. Oh fuck. Clover was about to let him down nicely. He had totally misinterpreted everything. “Do you…you don’t want to. That’s fine.”

“No, I do!” Clover blurted. “Please!”

A brief silence.

“Um, I mean it sounds lovely,” Clover finished, blushing bright red. “Yes, that would be nice.”

Qrow was fucked.

“Great,” he said, relieved. “Uh, Friday?”

“ _Friday???”_

“Um, are you not free?” Qrow asked.

“Qrow,” Clover said, a smile tugging at his lips. “Friday is Valentine’s Day.”

Qrow’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o.’

Taiyang was such a shit.

“I…didn’t realize.”

Clover gestured around him, to the pastries being prepared and displayed. Rows of heart-shaped cakes, small and large. Pink and red and white macarons. Sugar cookies decorated to look like valentines and candy hearts. Huh.

“You didn’t think it was weird that I spent like a thousand bucks more than usual?”

He rubbed the back of his head. “I’m bad at remembering holidays, okay? I guess I thought you were doing me a favor.”

“Aww, Qrow, that’s so sweet,” Clover said, smiling. “But my food costs come first.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Qrow deadpanned.

Clover laughed. “Besides, if I was trying to entice you I wouldn’t need that much chocolate.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “Exactly how much do you think it would take?”

Clover gave him a challenging look.

He reached down to the discarded container he’d been using, swiped his thumb through the smear of leftover chocolate ganache, and wiped it on his bottom lip. Qrow’s eyes went right for his mouth.

He was suddenly famished. It was ten in the morning.

“Uh…” Qrow said, his voice dropping about an octave. “Are you…are you gonna…”

Clover just batted his eyelashes. He parted his lips slightly, looking over at Qrow expectantly. Teal eyes flicked down and then back up to meet his. Qrow felt his face heat up. This had gone well past fawn in spring and galloped all the way into mating season. Clover leaned in, tilting his head slightly. Qrow did the same, slowly moving in until he could feel the warm puff of Clover’s breath against his lips. Tentatively, Qrow dipped in, his tongue darting out to lick at the chocolate on Clover’s lip. The baker’s eyes fluttered shut.

The taste was sweet, with a bit of bitterness and hints of berries and coffee. It was…good chocolate. Well balanced. Qrow had never considered himself a dessert person, but he was rapidly becoming a convert. Against his better judgement he went for a second taste, this time with the goal of licking every last drop of that sweetness from Clover’s lips.

It was like a religious experience. Clover’s mouth met his with enthusiasm, all but _groaning_ as Qrow claimed his prize. He had no sooner sucked the last bit of chocolate from the other man’s lips when Clover pressed his tongue in, demanding that he share the taste of it.

And then it was over. Qrow pulled back, equal parts shocked and yearning. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. And how much he wanted to do it again.

Clover opened his eyes. His lips were faintly kiss-bruised, and he had a look of dreamy wonder in his teal eyes.

“I, uh…I thought you would use your hand.”

Oops.

“I’m a lot better with my mouth,” he replied. He thought he heard a faint whine, from the flustered baker.

“No, uh…that was good,” Clover said, his voice rough. “It was good. Friday…is good.”

Qrow was blushing furiously, for all his flirtatious charm. “We really don’t…I know that’s weird. For a first date.”

Clover smiled, bright as the sun. “No, I…I like it. I’ve never had a Valentine on Valentine’s Day.”

Qrow chuckled. “Me neither. It’s kind of the worst night, for restaurants. Everywhere’s gonna be crazy.”

Oh, gods. He was an idiot. Flashes of restaurant PTSD flew through his head, the endless tickets of two-tops and the ceaseless march of boring specials that could be cranked out quickly. Anywhere decent would be booked, and anywhere that _wasn’t_ would have hour-plus lines all so you could have the pleasure of eating someone’s wilted greens, badly cooked meat, and mediocre chocolate lava cake.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, Qrow,” Clover said. He reached down, taking Qrow’s hand. “Tell you what, I know a place. How do you feel about food carts?”

Qrow blinked “Food carts?”

“Yeah, you know, there’s like a bunch of different stalls, and they all share tables, and you can– _mmmph!_ ”

The thought was cut off as Qrow surged forward, capturing Clover’s mouth in another kiss. This was different. This one was passionate, intense, _hungry_. He felt like a man who’d been wandering the desert, only to be greeted with a spring of fresh water and a 72-ounce steak. Clover got with the program, tugging him in and leaning back against the metal table as Qrow explored every inch of that sweet mouth with his tongue. 

Clover gasped for breath as they finally broke apart. “…so that’s a yes?”

“I fucking love food carts,” Qrow growled.

“You’re, um…” Clover looked down, guilty. “I got you messy.”

Qrow followed his gaze like an idiot. Oh. Some of the chocolate from Clover’s apron had gotten onto his clothes. He shrugged.

“I don’t actually care.”

“Oh,” Clover said, dazed. “Good.”

A blast of warm water hit him in the back and he yelped, whirling around. Weiss stood there, the spray hose from the sink raised menacingly in her hand.

“I _will_ hose you down, Qrow. Now move, I need sheet pans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Behind,' "Hot,' 'Hot behind,' 'Corner,' 'Knife,' and 'Knife behind' are all real kitchen callouts that will save your limbs from dismemberment. The more you know~!


	6. Shrimp! Heaven! Now!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gaze flickered down to Clover’s lips, remembering the feel of them against his. “I don’t know about you, Hot Cakes, but I don’t just want a _snack_. I want a full meal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The daaaaaate! Which will end up spanning TWO chapters, because the boys wouldn't stop flirting over food.

Fuck.

Shit, balls, fuck. Just… _fuck._

Clover was even _hotter_ in real life.

Well, okay. His weekly bakery visits were technically _real_ , it’s just that Qrow had gotten so accustomed to the ritual of it all that seeing Clover outside of work had completely thrown him.

They met at the food cart pod on 18th. Clover’s suggestion, and coincidentally Qrow’s favorite of the pods as well. It was strangely cozy, the various trailers arranged around the edge of the rectangular lot. In the center was a fire pit, welcoming in the evening chill, with rows of picnic tables on either side. Fairy lights were strung above the seating area, giving the space a magical glow. And under that soft glow stood Clover, looking like some kind of gift from heaven.

It occurred to him that this was the first time since their initial meeting that he’d seen Clover without anything on his head. Usually the baker had a deep red bandanna tied over his hair, or rolled up and worn across his forehead. Or, on one notably adorable occasion, a baseball cap worn backwards. But now, his short chestnut locks were freed. Clover’s hair was lightly styled, almost like he’d just rolled out of bed. The front had a gentle wave to it, and one perfect lock curled over his brow. Other than that, he was dressed simply, a snug forest-green Henley under a denim fleece-lined jacket, and gray jeans. Also snug.

Not that Qrow was looking at his package. Okay, he was. This was also the first time Clover didn’t have an apron covering his crotch. And those jeans were _sinfully_ tight.

Qrow should have been prepared for the full effect; he’d clocked enough hours in the kitchen and he never said no to a post-shift drink with the crew. Well, until a few months ago. But it was truly remarkable how different someone looked off the clock.

“Everything okay?” Clover asked, tilting his head. “You’re, uh…staring.”

Qrow startled, caught red-handed. Red-eyed. Just red.

“No, uh…it’s…nothing’s…you’re just…”

He took a moment to mentally reboot so he wouldn’t say something dumb like ‘ _I was just noticing that you have a nice forehead._ ’

“You look good,” he finally managed.

Clover chuckled, glancing down briefly. “Yes, well I do own clothes, it turns out.”

This was not helping his staring problem.

“Um!” The baker said, flushing. “I mean, other than work clothes. Of course, I own clothes. You’ve seen me in them. I, uh…probably underdressed anyway. Since we said food carts, I figured…well.”

Qrow wondered if everything this man said was accidentally sexual, or if it was just his pervert brain turning everything to filth. In any case, now he was thinking about Clover naked.

Clover coughed, regaining some of his composure. “You, uh…clean up pretty nice, yourself. Though you always look good.”

He considered his own outfit. It wasn’t really work wear, either. Conversely, it was a lot _less_ professional than the clothes he wore to see clients. Yang had described the faded, ripped black jeans as ‘ _fuck-me jeans,’_ which was a phrase he never needed to hear his niece say again. And the deep red button-down shirt—red because ‘ _it’s VALENTINE’S DAY, Uncle Qrow!’—_ was more unbuttoned than buttoned. He’d even painted his nails, a recent luxury now that he wasn’t touching food twelve hours a day. Add in his leather jacket and his usual assortment of cuffs and rings, and Qrow was pretty pleased with the look. Even if Tai said he looked like a goth cupid.

Clover clearly disagreed, from the way the baker was beaming at him. That, or he was into goth cupids.

“Er, thanks,” Qrow said. “How was the rest of your week? Was today crazy?”

“Yeah, but we were coasting,” Clover said, bouncing on his feet. “We’ve been prepping for weeks, so now it’s just a victory lap through a sea of money. You ever have that feeling, when you get so busy that everyone just starts gelling?”

He nodded, remembering. Gods, that was what he missed the most. Working on a team, everyone in perfect sync. In constant motion, the ticket machine spitting out order after order for hours, until finally the last table was lingering over dessert and coffee. He…hadn’t felt that for quite a while.

“Anyway,” Clover continued. “My staff made me leave early, so I had a power nap and I’ve been ordered not to set foot in the bakery for at least 72 hours. Gods, I can’t even _remember_ the last time I had an actual weekend, _on_ the actual weekend. Let alone a _three-day_ one. I don’t even _know_ what I’ll do with myself.”

“Oh?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral. “Yeah, uh…it’s been weird for me, too, having weekends off.”

Qrow had a lot of ideas for what Clover could do with himself for the next two days. Or what Qrow could do with Clover’s self, all day Saturday and Sunday. Monday was a bust, Qrow had to work. But…not all that hard, to be honest. He could pop over for a quickie.

“Seriously, right?” Clover said. “I’m normally Sunday and Monday off. The prospect of a free Saturday is tripping me out. What do people do?”

“Brunch,” Qrow said, automatically. He was haunted by eggs. So many eggs. So, so, so many…

“Oh? Is there a place you like?”

Qrow shook his head free from his traumatic stint as a short-order cook. Never again.

“Pietro’s is pretty great,” he said. “It’s the only brunch worth waiting in line for, in my opinion. Gotta come hungry, though. The portions are massive. He makes this bacon-pecan spoon bread that’s just…”

Qrow clutched his heart, both in appreciation and in the heart attack that that man’s food would eventually give him. He asked Pietro once if he put clouds in that damn bread. The real answer was worse: the batter had straight whipped cream folded in.

Clover laughed. “I’ll have to check it out, I don’t think I’ve ever been. That’s Pietro Polendina, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “He’s getting up in years, so he mostly just hangs out in the dining room chatting with the customers. The girls are friends with his granddaughter.”

“Gods, this really is a small town,” Clover said, rolling his eyes. “I think he and James used to be business partners back in Atlas, too.”

“Everyone knows everyone,” Qrow reiterated. It was kind of the worst sometimes. Especially if you had a certain…reputation.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh, you come here often?”

Clover winked. Qrow winced.

“Qrow, you already got the date. You don’t have to use a pick-up line on me.”

“Yeah, yeah, smartass,” he snorted. His face flushed red. “I meant it honestly.”

The baker laughed, mercifully leading him in a slow walk around the perimeter. “I only started coming here a couple months ago, but now I do, yeah. I love how lively everything is.”

“Yeah, uh…sorry about that, again. I really didn’t realize it was Valentine’s day.”

Qrow glanced around. It was definitely busier than normal for the holiday, but not extraordinarily so. Which was a relief; spending their first date standing in line and then not having anywhere to sit would just be another way he’d messed things up with Clover. 

“Lines aren’t too bad,” Clover said, echoing his thoughts. “But if this is a bust we can just go make out in the back of my car. Or yours, I’m really not picky.”

Qrow nearly tripped over his own feet.

Clover winked at him again. “I meant it when I said you don’t need a line.”

“My car is full of fancy crackers,” Qrow blurted. Great comeback, night gremlin. Tai’s voice taunted him; maybe he should try some dick jokes.

“Yours it is, then,” Clover said, not missing a beat. “I appreciate a man who packs snacks. It’s a shame you don’t have dessert.”

Qrow ducked his chin, rubbing the back of his head. “I think there’s some imported candy in there too.”

“Sweet and salty,” Clover said, his teal eyes piercing Qrow’s with a playful look. “Just the way I like it.”

There was an intense moment where Qrow thought he was either going to _die_ or he was going to jump the man in front of him and climb him like a tree. It had to be one or the other. Those were the only two choices.

His gaze flickered down to Clover’s lips, remembering the feel of them against his. “I don’t know about you, Hot Cakes, but I don’t just want a _snack_. I want a full meal.”

It was Clover’s turn to get flustered, then, a faint blush coloring his cheeks under the warm glow of the lights. “Well, um…in that case, maybe we should get some food? Gods, it’s…kind of hot by this fire pit, huh.”

Right. Dinner.

“What are you in the mood for?” Qrow asked, surveying the offerings.

It felt strangely intimate, like they were revealing personal information just by deciding what to eat. Though, that probably wasn’t far off. He knew Clover liked things that were sweet but not cloying. He despised gimmicky foods, but he was also deeply passionate about good-quality ingredients. He could be exacting in his preparation when it mattered, but he wasn’t afraid to throw down for a homestyle sausage gravy and rustic buttermilk biscuits. Qrow was still thinking about that meal, to be honest.

He supposed that his own food habits said just as much. Namely, that he was a glutton who would throw any old nasty meat in his mouth.

_Why_ did Clover agree to this date, again?

“Have you been to Ma’s Shrimp Shack yet?” Clover asked, throwing him out of his thoughts.

“I…actually haven’t,” he said. Well, maybe he wasn’t _so_ adventurous. “Is it good? I guess I wasn’t sure about raw fish coming out of a food cart.”

He’d done a stint at a food cart that made fried hand-pies. On a bad night there were more rats than pies.

“Oh, you’re missing out!” Clover said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the…well, the cart sort of looked like a dinghy, but like if someone had run out of money halfway through outfitting it. “And I’ve never gotten food poisoning from there, no. Though I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to hear that was your impression.”

“You’re a regular, huh?” he asked. That should be a glowing recommendation, but Qrow _would_ be the one guy to get the bad oyster.

“I have deep weakness for fish,” Clover said. “Plus, I know the owners.”

Gods, everyone really _did_ know everyone.

The line at the Shrimp Shack was shorter than most, so he felt a bit less guilty at his trepidation. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one nervous about food cart fish. But the menu, even handwritten in neon on a black dry-erase board, was just as intriguing as he remembered. It was short, just a half-dozen main dishes, a scattering of offerings from the raw bar, and a few appetizers. But the dishes each had an interesting twist. Not fusion for the sake of it, but more adapting the seaside classics to local Vale ingredients. The cart _looked_ homey, but whoever the chef was clearly knew their stuff.

“Man, everything looks good,” Qrow said, studying the menu. “I don’t know what I want.”

“It’s all super fresh,” Clover assured him. “You can’t go wrong with any of it, but if this is your first time you’ve _gotta_ get the ceviche. It’s _so good._ Especially with the fresh citrus this time of year. You can handle a little spice, right?”

“Yep,” he said. “Is that what you’re getting?”

“Nah, I’m uh…I’m in a bit of a clams and chorizo rut. They make their own chorizo, though, it’s killer. The broth is _amazing_.”

That almost tipped his mind. Instead of cured chorizo, the menu boasted a spicy house-made fresh sausage. Qrow could almost _taste_ the way the toasted spices and rich pork fat would complement the briny clams.

“Yeah, I was eyeing that too.”

“Nuh-uh, it’s ceviche for you. But I tell you what,” Clover said, throwing him a wink. “I’ll give you a little taste of mine.”

Well, if he wasn’t hungry before…

“Hey, Mac!” Clover said, as they approached the window.

A massive man greeted them with a smile. “Hey there, kiddo! Back for more already?”

Clover rubbed the back of his head, looking a bit embarrassed. It was…cute. “What can I say, it’s good stuff. Plus I had to show off my excellent taste.”

He draped an arm around Qrow’s shoulder. “This is my friend Qrow, he’s never been here before. Qrow this is Mac, he’s the best.”

The man, Mac apparently, looked from Clover to Qrow. Qrow had the sudden feel of being evaluated. It wasn’t great; the guy was huge. His enormous, tattooed, hairy forearms bulged as he leaned over the ledge of the counter. He had a dark, thick beard, and a black bandanna was tied around his head. It looked like a pirate had opened a food cart. Which was fitting, for a seafood place.

Eventually, he broke into a grin. “Well, you’re about to fall in love,” he said, with a hearty laugh. Qrow noticed he was missing a few teeth. Mac turned back to Clover. “Let me guess, you want the clams?”

“Yes please!” Clover chirped. “And can I get extra—“

“Extra bread, yeah yeah,” Mac said. “Do you not get enough carbs in your day job?”

“I’ll have you know I ate a real lunch today. Not a cake scrap in sight.”

“Uh-huh. And breakfast?”

“Chocolate chip cookie and a banana,” Clover said sweetly. “Qrow’s gonna have the shrimp ceviche.”

Mac gave Clover a dubious look.

“Your _friend_ is buying the ceviche? Is this like when your _friend_ just happened to buy beer?”

Clover put his hands up. “Mac, I swear. It’s for Qrow. It’s his first time!”

Qrow coughed. “I’ve, uh…I mean, I’ve had ceviche before. Just not here.”

And not…recently.

“All right, just…use your good judgement,” Mac said, punching the order into a comically small tablet with his meaty fingers. Weird service at this place. “Anything else? Drinks?”

Clover ordered them a couple of sodas, then pulled out his wallet. Qrow put his hand out.

“I got this, Hot Cakes.”

“Qrow, it’s no problem. I picked the place.”

“I asked you out. To make up for _me_ being an asshole. And _you_ making me breakfast. And you picked a food cart instead of something fancier because _I’m_ too dumb to read a calendar.”

Clover’s mouth opened and shut, rather like the fish that were getting battered and fried in the back. Qrow smirked. “You know I have you cornered, don’t you?”

Clover put his wallet back in his pocket, with a sigh. Qrow handed over his credit card.

Mac handed it right back. “This one’s on the house, boys.”

Qrow frowned. “Oh, uh…you really don’t have to do that.”

He tried handing his card off again, but the big man flatly refused. It was sweet, but Qrow knew the first year of any place was rough. Oz was brilliant, but even he closed half his ventures.

“Mac, for the love of the Brothers, let the man pay you,” Clover said, rolling his eyes.

“Kid, how many times do I have to tell you your money’s no good here?” Mac said, to Clover.

“Well, it’s my money, not Clover’s,” Qrow snapped. And then blanched. Mac probably had a hundred pounds on him.

There was a brief pause, then Mac laughed, shaking his head as he finally swiped Qrow’s card. It was a booming, terrifying sound. “All right, kid. Ya got me too I guess.” He winked at Clover. “He’s cute, I approve.”

Mac handed over the tablet for Qrow to sign. He left a massive tip.

“Should be just a couple minutes,” Mac said. “I’ll call you.”

“Thanks, Mac,” Clover chirped, oblivious to the amount of sweat pouring off of him. Clover peered around Mac’s shoulder, which was nearly impossible due to the man’s bulk. How he got in and out of that cart was a mystery to Qrow. “Is, uh…Ma’s not back there, is she?”

Huh, so there was an actual ‘Ma’ at this place. Qrow had figured it was just a name. There was something slightly menacing to him about people who _made_ everyone, and not just their children, call them ‘Ma’ or ‘Mom’ or ‘Pop’ or whatever. The kids could call him ‘uncle’ all they wanted, but damned if he was going to force it. But maybe that was his own hangup.

“She’s on break,” Mac said. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Clover waved his hands. “Oh, uh…you don’t have to do that. You guys are busy. I don’t wanna bug her.”

“Suit yourself,” Mac said, handing them their sodas.

“What was that about?” Qrow asked, as they found a picnic table. By some good fortune, a table right next to the fire pit opened up just as they approached. Qrow plunked their sodas down and swung his legs over the bench, grateful for the warmth at his back. It was February, after all. Clover actually took his jacket _off_ , taking a seat on the opposite side.

“Just a little joke we have,” Clover said, laughing nervously. “I, uh, come here a lot. And I’ve known Mac since I was a kid. He’s practically family.”

Qrow didn’t really get it, but sure. Family was weird. He knew that better than anyone.

“Well, I’m glad I’m finally trying this place,” he said, honestly. “We’ve been taking the girls here for years, and it’s kinda nice seeing new carts.”

Bittersweet, in a way. To see old businesses close down or move out, or on some happy occasions move up to brick-and-mortar joints. But then something new always came in. There was something comforting about that.

“We?” Clover asked.

“Me and Tai,” Qrow said, rolling his eyes. “The idiot brother-in-law.”

All four of them, once upon a time. Before Ruby and Yang were born. Before everything with Stark went to shit. Before Raven moved away, and Summer…

Qrow had seen a lot of carts disappear, in all those years.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I have this for you.”

He pulled out a...kind of crumpled, _shit_ , piece of paper from his jacket and handed it over. Clover unfolded it, studying the writing. His face slowly lit up, into the most blinding smile Qrow had ever seen.

“The Meyer Lemon Pudding Cake! You really got me the recipe?”

“From the man himself,” Qrow said, blushing. Tai had only been a _mild_ piece of shit about it.

“Oh, gods, well now I know what I’m doing tomorrow,” Clover said, grinning like an idiot. “Gods, and you brought me all those lemons, too. Qrow, I could _kiss_ you, honestly.”

“…Yeah?”

The picnic table between them seemed vast. He leaned forward slightly, as if he could erase the obstacle just by sheer force of will. Clover did the same, meeting his eyes. If felt like the heat of the fire had absorbed through his back, taking up residence in his gut as he burned, helpless, for this gorgeous man in front of him. 

“CHOW’S UP, KID!”

The deep voice boomed through the lot, even over the din of the crowd. Clover groaned, twisting his head around. Qrow glanced behind him to the Shrimp Shack, where Mac was leaning out the window and waving.

Figures. The candy and crackers might have been the safer option. Though with his luck, he’d probably kick the parking break or something and send his car rolling into a tree.

“Raincheck?” Clover said, sheepishly.

“I’m holding you to that, Hot Cakes,” he said, smirking as he stood to get their food. A glance back at the picnic table revealed Clover pressing the back of his hand to his face.

Mac greeted him with a smile, sliding a tray with their meal onto the counter.

“This one’s the ceviche,” Mac said, pointing.

“Uh, thanks,” he said. It was fairly obvious. Considering the other bowl was full of…clams. He grabbed a handful of napkins and some spoons.

“No kissing with tongue,” Mac warned.

Qrow knocked over a container of salt packets.

“What?” he said, clumsily shoving the salt packets back into their mason jar.

The big man smiled at him. “You heard me. Enjoy your food!”

Great. If he wasn’t getting cockblocked by Clover’s staff at the bakery, it was Clover’s terrifying adopted pirate dad. As he made his way back to the table, Clover gave a meaningful look to the bench next to him, then looked up with a question in his eyes. Qrow hesitated. A shiver ran down his spine.

It was cold. It was freezing cold and Qrow needed to sit by the fire. That was what he told himself. It wasn’t that Clover was so hot that he was terrifying. And definitely not because that toothless fish man could punch him into next Tuesday.

“Damn, I should have gotten something warm,” Qrow said, taking his original seat across from Clover. “How are you not freezing?”

“I run hot,” Clover said, with a shrug. “Good for bread, bad for chocolate. It’s why Vine’s the only one who does chocolate work. The man has hands like icicles. Are you cold?”

“Couple minutes by the fire, and I’ll be fine.”

Clover actually _pushed his sleeves up_ , before pulling his bowl of clams over. Well, that was certainly helping him warm up.

“Cheers,” Clover said, toasting him with the crust of his bread. “Mac wasn’t lying, you’re about to fall in love.”

There was no _about_ about it. Qrow was already in love, and he hadn’t eaten a single bite.

Right. Ceviche. The plate before him was colorful, with pink shrimp, creamy avocado, and pops of green and red from cilantro and tomatoes. He scooped up a bite with a tortilla chip, raising it to meet Clover’s toast, and popped it in his mouth.

And promptly went to heaven.

Qrow actually _groaned_ , his eyes closing in bliss. It was like a beach vacation in his mouth. The acid of the lime, the sweetness from the shrimp. A little heat from the chili. And the texture, from the crunchy chip to the creamy avocado and the satisfying snap of perfectly cured seafood.

“ _How?”_ he managed, between bites. It was so simple, and yet so good.

“There’s gonna be a mango version in the summer,” Clover said, dunking his bread triumphantly. “Here, try some of the clams.”

Clover assembled a bite for him, de-shelling a clam and placing it in his spoon, along with some of the red-stained broth and a few crumbles of chorizo. He held the spoon out, and Qrow didn’t even _consider_ taking it before leaning in and letting Clover feed him.

He groaned again. It was just as he’d imagined it, rich and decadent. He could see why Clover kept ordering it.

“Mmm, that’s amazing. I think I like mine better, though. You want some of this?”

“Oh, uh…I’m good.”

Qrow shrugged, taking another bite of the ceviche. Gods, this was good. Sex and tongue-kisses had flown out of his head and now the only thing he wanted in his mouth was this delicious shrimp. Clover watched him eat, worrying at his bottom lip.

“Are you sure? All that talk and you really don’t want a bite?”

“I really shouldn’t…” Clover said, staring longingly at his plate.

Weird, Clover didn’t seem like a particularly shy guy. Why was he being so deferential?

“Just take a bite, already. You keep staring. I really don’t mind.”

Clover looked around, scanning the area like he was the valedictorian sneaking a joint behind the bleachers. Satisfied, he reached out to pluck a tortilla chip from Qrow’s plate and scoop up a hefty amount of ceviche.

“ _Clover Ebi,_ don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing!”

Clover jumped about a mile in the air, fumbling the tortilla chip and sending the whole bite to the ground.

“Fuck!”

An older woman marched over to them, from the direction of the seafood cart. As she approached, she whipped off her apron and used it to smack Clover on the back. He cringed, bringing his arms up to protect his head.

“Ma, it’s just one bite!”

“Just one bite, he says. How about _just one son_ , whom I would prefer to keep around?”

Qrow tilted his head, studying her. The ‘ _Ma_ ’ of Ma’s Shrimp Shack was tall and graceful yet sturdy, with lightly tanned skin, wavy chestnut hair that was graying at the temples and pulled into a long ponytail, and bright green eyes. He looked from her to Clover.

“Ohhhh,” he said, as comprehension dawned on him. “You’re _his_ Ma.”

Mistake. The woman turned her attention on him. She put her hands on her hips, the apron still clutched in her hand like a threat.

“Are you trying to poison my son?”

“Um,” he said. She was really intimidating. Even more than the big guy. “No?”

“Ma, lay off, Qrow didn’t know.” Clover said. And then to Qrow, “I, uh…may have a mild shellfish allergy.”

Qrow blinked. “Define mild.”

Clover shifted on the bench, sheepish. “It’s only crustaceans; mollusks and fish are fine. Uh…my face just gets super puffy. Well, fairly swollen. And I might have a little trouble breathing. But it only happens one in three times!”

“One in three times,” he repeated. “There was a one in three chance you were gonna blow up like a balloon and I wouldn’t even know that the fuck was happening to you?”

“I have an Epi-pen,” Clover said. “Uh…I think it’s in my car. But I had a good feeling about this one!”

He looked up at Clover’s mom. She handed him the apron.

“Hey!” Clover protested, as Qrow leaned over the table and gave him a good _whack_ on the shoulder.

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Take another bite of that ceviche, Qrow, and tell me it’s not worth the risk.”

“Sure it’s _good_ , but it’s not _that_ good.”

Qrow froze. He looked up at Clover’s mom, who was studying him with a critical eye. “Uhhhhh…I mean, it’s a great dish. You can tell it’s real fresh. The balance is…uh…”

He’d never been good at describing what he liked about food. Doing it under the chef’s eye was even harder. Multiply that by the fact that the chef was his date’s mom…not his most eloquent review.

Clover’s mom leaned over, ruffling his hair. “All right, relax. Even I don’t think my cooking is good enough to kill my kid.”

“I wouldn’t _die_ ,” Clover insisted. He was still kind of ruefully eyeing Qrow’s ceviche. “ _This_ is killing me. I saw you got crab in too, Ma. What if I take a Benadryl first?”

“Absolutely not,” Clover’s mom said. Qrow handed her the apron. “Well? Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Oh!” Clover said, smacking his forehead. He turned to Qrow. “Sorry, that was super rude. Qrow, this is my mom, Amaranth. Ma, this is Qrow Branwen. He works for Beacon now, but he used to be a…”

Clover paused, shooting him a questioning look. Fair enough, he’d been pretty weird about his work history. Qrow stuck his hand out.

“I used to be a chef myself. Can’t say I miss the hours, though, Mrs. Ebi.”

“Timm, actually. _Ms._ Timm, I ditched that bastard’s name years ago,” she said, as she shook his hand. Whoops. “But everyone calls me Ma, so you better, too.”

Qrow tried to hide his wince. Ma it was, then.

Ma was unfazed by his faux-pas. “Ah, so you’re in the industry! Anywhere I might know?”

“Most recently I was a hired gun, but before that I was at Signal. Then, uh…Stark before that.”

Ma lit up, looking remarkably like her son. “Oh gods, _Stark!_ What a legend. I think Mac and I went to happy hour there, once. The charcuterie was _amazing.”_

“Oh,” he said, bashful. “Uh…that was probably me. That was kind of my…area.”

“Really? Well, you’re incredibly talented. I remember there was some kind of terrine with hazelnuts and–“

“Ma,” Clover interrupted, giving her a meaningful look. Thank the gods, Qrow was about to melt into the pavement.

“Oh,” she said, hands on her hips. “Am I taking up too much of your time?”

“I would never say that,” Clover said, innocent as a boy scout.

She ruffled Clover’s hair, and he whined in protest. “All right, I get it. You boys have a good night. Clover, stay away from that shrimp. No kissing with tongue.”

Clover blushed furiously, as she walked back to her cart. His hair was mussed and fluffy. It was fucking adorable. “I’m really not that allergic,” he said. “ _That’s_ never happened before.”

“You’ve never kissed with tongue?” Qrow teased. “I didn’t know I was your first. You’re a natural, I have to say.”

Clover laughed, burying his head in his hands. He was so full of life, it made Qrow catch his breath.

Was this…what his life could be like? Going on dates with Clover. Making Clover laugh. Sharing the things he liked. Taking Clover to meet his family.

It was…nice. It was honestly nice. And it never would have been possible in his old life. For the first time, his dumb job with Oz didn’t feel like a consolation prize. It didn’t feel like he’d been eaten up and spit out of a destructive industry. It felt like he’d made a choice that worked for him. For the better.

“What?” Clover said, studying him. He must have been staring.

“No, I…” Qrow laughed, shaking his head. “Cloves. You really took me to meet your mom on our first date?”

“What, why wouldn’t my mom want to meet you?” Clover said, an adorable wrinkle forming between his brows. “And why wouldn’t anyone want to meet my mom, she’s awesome.”

“Tch, you are a total mama’s boy, aren’t you?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Clover said, with a pout. “And might I remind you, you asked _me_ out on Valentine’s Day.”

“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I don’t usually drag my dates anywhere I might run into family.”

“Is that _Qrow?_ Hey! Qrow! Yooooo-hooo! Turn around! Uncle Qroooooooow!”

Qrow froze in place, a bite of ceviche poised in front of his mouth. Apparently, he was a liar.

“One of your nieces?” Clover asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not…biologically,” he said, strained.

“ _QROW! BEHIND YOU, CAN YOU HEAR MEEEEE? IS THAT THE HOT BAKER?”_

“Nora…”

Qrow sighed. Clover hid his smile. “Hot baker?”

“Shut it, mama’s boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clover you dumb himbo, no you cannot eat that shrimp.


	7. Sweet Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clover moaned, staring at his phone. He reluctantly pulled away from Qrow, retrieving the phone and pouting at the screen. Same contact info. 
> 
> “Let me guess,” Qrow said, cocking an eyebrow. “A certain business owner with a baguette up his ass?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK BAYBEE!
> 
> I did not mean to go half a year without updating this, I swear! That pandemic life has just been...weird for me, creativity wise. In any case, no stories have or will be abandoned, I promise. And today, squeezed just under the wire of Valentine's Day, I felt it was appropriate to present the next installment of Qrow and Clover's Accidental Valentine's Day Date.

Qrow’s kids were _delightful_.

“Not biologically!” Qrow protested, for possibly the fifth time.

“Uh huh,” Clover said. “It just seems like you mentor a lot of youths at the moment.”

Before Qrow could respond, the redheaded young woman, Nora, nodded emphatically. “Oh, Qrow’s the _best!_ ” she gushed, between and sometimes amidst bites of takoyaki. “He always listens. And he let us both put him as a reference on job applications! Ren’s doing guard manager now!”

“ _Garde manger_ ,” the boy, Ren, corrected, hitting the pronunciation flawlessly. “And we’re very grateful, Qrow.”

They were an odd pair, but they made sense somehow. The boy was quiet, reserved, while the girl was loud and brash. But they had an unspoken bond between them. Clearly, the two came as a package deal.

“Yeah, well I don’t know if my name means all that much,” Qrow grumbled, shifting on the bench.

“Don’t be shy!” Nora said, skewering another octopus puff. “Your name is like _gold_. I think they’re gonna let me train on grill soon. That is my _absolute dream job!_ ”

A very telling look passed between Ren and Qrow. Nora on grill was going to be dangerous.

The redhead inhaled the last blazing-hot octopus puff. Her apparent boyfriend was still blowing on his first one to cool it down. “Ren, we should get another order of these!”

“Nora…”

“On me, kids,” Qrow said, handing Nora some cash. “Go crazy. Just try some new stuff, okay?”

Nora let out a squeal of delight, dragging Ren off just as he managed to stuff his takoyaki in his mouth. “ _THANKYOUQROWWEWILLWEPROMISEOHMYGODRENWHATISTHAT—“_

Clover watched Qrow, as he watched Nora drag Ren from booth to booth, a little smile on his rugged face. He did a double-take as he finally noticed Clover’s attention, flushing and looking down. It was unfortunately charming.

“What?” Qrow asked.

“Nothing,” Clover said, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand. “You’re just cute. You’re really generous, you know that?”

Clover was still reeling from the fact that _Mac_ let Qrow _pay for food._ Clover had been expecting at least a ten-minute showdown. But apparently Mac liked the look of his date. Clover couldn’t say he disagreed.

Qrow snorted, glancing back at Ma’s truck. Apparently, he was having the same thought. “When I’m allowed to be.”

Clover peeked over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a mop of chestnut hair duck back behind the window. But there was only Mac, laughing heartily at something a customer had said. Clover grimaced. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you lose face, or anything. They like to look out for me. Just like you like to look out for those kids, I’m guessing.”

They’d come to Vale with the clothes on their backs, him and Ma. It was hard. Ma had only worked on fishing boats and in canneries, before her short and unsuccessful turn as a housewife. It was right back to that when they struck out on their own. Mac was the son of an old family friend. He helped them get set up in Vale, though he was barely an adult himself at the time. Years of camaraderie turned to a partnership. Clover hardly remembered his biological father, but he remembered Mac.

Now if only he and Ma would get their crap together and make it official.

“They’re good kids,” Qrow mused, snapping Clover out of his thoughts. “Neither of ‘em have parents in the picture. I just like to keep an eye on them, is all. I can, uh…kinda relate.”

For someone who claimed to not be good at much, Qrow was certainly _keeping his eye_ on a lot of people. Ren and Nora. The infamous nieces and their ‘idiot dad.’ Weiss, apparently, much to Winter’s chagrin. And for that matter, Clover himself. No matter how hectic it was, every time Qrow left the bakery a feeling of warmth settled in Clover’s bones. Like he could tackle anything. With that small bit of support, Qrow made the day worth facing.

“Lucky for them,” Clover said, reaching out and laying his hand over Qrow’s. The little blush that had started at the tips of Qrow’s ears snuck around to his high cheekbones, lighting his pale skin with a faint pink glow. Clover could feel the heat building in his own body. The warmth of the fire, the spicy broth in his stomach, Qrow’s hand soft and dry under his. Fiery red eyes locked onto Clover’s teal. Qrow slowly turned his hand until they were pressed palm to palm, long fingers entwining with his.

Clover’s ass started vibrating.

He yelped, clapping his free hand over his left buttcheek. After a quick fumble he had his phone out. Clover frowned when he saw the contact info, and quickly hit the button to decline the call.

Honestly. On _Valentine’s Day???_

“Everything okay?” Qrow asked, as Clover set his phone face down on the table.

“Great,” Clover said, pasting on a smile. He could feel Qrow start to pull back, and Clover gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s nothing, really. Where were we?”

“Uh,” Qrow said, his blush intensifying. His thumb traced a tentative circle into Clover’s palm. Clover thought he might die. “Actually, would you want to…”

His traitorous phone was silent for exactly one minute before it started buzzing again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Clover moaned, staring at his phone. He reluctantly pulled away from Qrow, retrieving the phone and pouting at the screen. Same contact info.

“Let me guess,” Qrow said, cocking an eyebrow. “A certain business owner with a baguette up his ass?”

Clover made a face at the reference. He hated wasting food.

“I should probably get this,” he said, sighing. Qrow frowned, but didn’t say anything else. Reluctantly, Clover hit the green button.

_“Clover??? Why didn’t you answer my call earlier?”_

Clover sighed. “Believe it or not, sir, I’m actually out at the moment.”

A brief silence. _“…Ah. My apologies. In any case, have you seen the latest post by Cinder Fall?”_

“...no?”

_“Fifteenth and Hawthorne. As soon as possible. I need your opinion.”_

Another brief silence, one laden with expectations. _“…Please.”_

James ended the call.

Clover almost threw his phone in the fire.

There was a long moment where he just stared at the thing, mouth open. Finally, he groaned, collapsing over the table and burying his head in his arms. Qrow neatly yanked his bowl out of the way so he didn’t dunk his face in the dregs of his clam broth.

“I don’t believe this,” he mumbled. The polished wood of the picnic table was cool against his heated forehead. “What am I, on call? Is someone about to _die?_ ”

“You know you can just tell him to fuck off,” Qrow said.

Clover did not know that. In fact, he was pretty sure the opposite was true. Fine, he would just…look at this one thing. Humor his boss, then call him back and talk the man down from whatever cliff he was dangling over. Then back to his date.

With a sigh, he sat up enough to look at his phone. He gave Qrow an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, this will be quick. He just wanted me to check something on Instagram.”

Clover only had the stupid app because of James. He had zero posts, zero followers, and he was only following one person, the official Ironwood Pâtisserie account. He did a search for Cinder Fall, pulling up the latest post.

Wait. What?

“What the fuck?” Clover sputtered. He flipped the phone around, showing Qrow. “This is our special!”

Qrow took the phone from him, studying the image. Clover didn’t even need to _see_ it. He knew the layered pink and white parfait like the back of his hand, because he and Vine had spent all of last week building them.

“Is this like…someone important?” Qrow asked, frowning. “Posting about your bakery? What kind of a name is ‘ _baddie blush?’_ ”

“It’s a lychee panna cotta with rose gelee!” Clover huffed. “I would _never_ pick a name like that. And that is _not_ one of our tables, and it should only come with _one_ tuile, not _three_ , and do you honestly think I would stick that much gold leaf on a fucking dessert?! Someone copied us!”

Qrow gave him an wicked look, waggling his brows at Clover over the phone. “You know, you’re pretty cute when you get worked up like this, Hot Cakes.”

Clover’s stomach did somersaults. “O-oh?”

The man across the table chuckled, thumbing through the comments. “Looks like some kind of pop-up. It’s not far from here. You want to check it out?”

Clover was already pulling his jacket on, half-standing, when it occurred to him that this was probably bad date etiquette. He froze, embarrassed.

“Er,” he said. “I…no, that’s…no. I came here to spend time with you, Qrow. You’re right, I should just call James and tell him I’m busy.”

Or maybe text him. Or maybe just…not do it. And turn his phone off.

Qrow cocked his head at him, rising from his seat. The bonfire at his back was echoed in his fiery expression. “Cloves. Someone _stole your recipe._ That’s personal.”

Oh, gods.

Clover didn’t even think about it. He surged forward, leaning over the table and grabbing the front of Qrow’s jacket. He brought their lips together in a frantic kiss, pouring all the heat and buzz of attraction he felt into that one sublime motion. Qrow moaned softly, opening up and meeting him with enthusiasm.

“What was that for?” Qrow gasped, as Clover released him.

“Just had to get that out of the way,” he replied, grinning. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

The smile Qrow gave him, slow and sweet, would fuel a thousand early mornings.

“Let’s roll, then.”

Qrow went to tell Ren and Nora they were taking off while Clover bussed their dishes back to Ma’s cart. He was so fired up about the kiss and this pop-up business that it wasn’t until he saw Mac wiggle his moustache knowingly that Clover realized he’d probably seen the whole thing.

“You’re in a rush,” Mac teased. “Ya got your epi-pen, kid?”

Clover’s lips were tingling, all right, but it wasn’t due to his shellfish allergy. 

“Shut it,” he warned. “Tell Ma I’ll call her Monday, kay?”

A booming laugh echoed as he jogged back to Qrow, his cheeks on fire. Still, he couldn’t help the little smile of relief that tugged at his lips. There were two things he really cared about, his job and his family. His staff already loved Qrow. Winter and James were...they would come around. But if his _family_ didn’t like him…well. It was never going to be an issue, because Qrow was lovely and anyone with half a brain could tell.

The man in question was waiting on the corner where they’d met, hands in his pockets. He jerked his thumb back at the tables, where Ren and Nora were devouring a veritable feast.

“The kids might wander over once they’re done here. The pop-up’s near that good gelato place.”

“You think they’ll still be hungry?” Clover asked. Nora was just so _little_. Ren wasn’t the bulkiest either, though Nora seemed to be eating the vast majority of the food.

Qrow snorted. “It’s like ten blocks away, that’s plenty of time to walk it off. You haven’t seen these kids eat before. It’s like a pack of lions.”

Clover laughed, imagining a wandering horde of hungry teens. “Fair enough. Shall we?”

He started walking in the direction of the pop-up, but Qrow lingered. Clover paused, confused.

“It’s this way, right?”

“My car’s this way,” Qrow said. He pointed in the opposite direction.

Clover frowned. “It’s ten blocks. That’s not that…”

_Oh._

Clover swallowed.

“Driving is…good.”

“It’s faster,” Qrow said.

“Lead the way,” he replied.

Qrow strode into the night, Clover trailing a few steps behind before jogging to keep the pace. The street lamp turned his long legs into dreamlike shadows on the sidewalk. Clover’s head felt a bit fuzzy. He was grinning like an idiot.

Maybe a snack was in order after all.

* * *

They ended up parking a full two blocks from the pop-up, if only because A) Parking on Hawthorne was typically a mess, and B) Taking it to the side streets meant that nobody was around to witness Qrow reach between Clover’s legs, pull the bar under the passenger seat, shove the seat back, and then crawl over the center console to straddle Clover’s lap.

Which meant they were both a bit out of breath when they stumbled out of the car some time later, despite saving themselves the walk.

“This way,” Qrow said, leading Clover with a hand at the small of his back. Clover followed along, a giddy smile on his face. “I think I know the building, actually. It used to be a pho restaurant, but they shut down last year.”

Clover had never been to a pop-up, primarily because he didn’t go out at night. If this one was indicative of the trend, it was like a cross between a festival and a night club. But…with food. Special, limited edition food, that could be obtained nowhere else.

From the outside, you would never know a restaurant was even operating. The sign for the old pho place was still up, for one. Only a flier taped to the open glass door advertised the event. But the place was packed, little standing bar tables scattered through the minimalist dining room. Dance music blared from inside. The large patio to the side of the restaurant was set up like the food cart pod, but with infinitely more lights. Actually, the whole place was impeccably lit. The back brick wall of the patio even had an honest-to-god _professional photographer_.

“Are they always this loud?” he wondered, gazing around like a country bumpkin. His disorientation may or may not have had something to do with Qrow’s hand under his jacket.

“Usually they get a DJ or something, it’s fucking stupid,” Qrow explained. “If you ask me, the whole idea is stupid. It’s always the same fucking people, and the food always sucks.”

Clover laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.”

It was funny seeing Qrow get opinionated over food the same way he did. For all he appreciated the food itself, he seemed to have a deep loathing for the industry around it. It was such a different world from Clover’s quiet little bakery. What restaurants were hot, who was seen where…the politics behind it were completely over his head.

“Let’s just find the counter,” Qrow muttered.

“You have to order inside!”

Both of them jumped, them whirled around. Ren and Nora were standing behind them, waving innocently. Nora leaned forward, leering.

“Took you two a while to get here, huh?”

Clover coughed, in an attempt to conceal the fact that they’d been making out like teenagers from a couple of…well, teenagers. Who in that span of time had eaten an entire meal and then walked ten blocks.

“We took a detour,” Qrow said, flat. No further explanation.

“They’re selling your dessert, but the main attraction seems to be some kind of sandwich,” Ren said. “That’s all we’ve seen anyone eat.”

They made their way to the front counter, peering over the deep line of people. Clover couldn’t believe how crowded it was. And yet, the hand-lettered menu boasted only a few items, each from a different no-doubt famous chef. Clover’s heart sunk as he saw the poorly titled dessert toward the bottom of the menu. No chef listed.

A man in line, noticing their gawking, turned and glared at them.

“Hey, back off, man! I’ve been waiting an hour for this sandwich!”

“No one’s trying to cut,” Clover said, holding his arms out in a friendly gesture. “We just wanted to look at the menu.”

“What’s there to look at, besides _the sandwich?”_ the man said. There were practically stars in his eyes. “Brined in ghost peppers and double fried…can you believe it? They say it’s so spicy it makes you _cry_. Only five people tonight have finished it!”

“What is it, just a hot chicken sandwich?” Qrow snorted. “And it’s…”

He let out a low whistle. Clover followed his gaze, past the adjective-filled description and down to the price.

“ _Twenty dollars for a sandwich?_ ” Clover cried, mouth falling open. “What does it come with, a side of caviar?”

Every salty online review complaining about prices sprang to the forefront of his mind. Because yes, Ironwood’s desserts were on the expensive side. But they had dozens of varieties, each with three to six sub-recipes. They made everything from scratch, by hand. And somehow in the alchemy of it all, they produced little works of art. Little mosaics of flavor.

This was a chicken sandwich whose primary characteristic was being inedible. A glance at the bottom of the menu revealed that not only had their panna cotta been copied, but whoever was selling it was also charging more. Clover felt another arrow pierce his heart.

“Looks like it’s a la carte,” Qrow replied. “Oh wait…no. No, there’s pickles.”

The pickles seemed very important to the customers. If they could be called that. No one was eating anything, they were all just taking pictures.

Someone bumped into Clover, and he stumbled forward. Qrow caught him neatly, steadying him in his arms. The offending person, a man holding a digital camera, threw a quick look over his shoulder.

“Sorry, man. Just getting the light.”

“Watch where you’re going, pal,” Qrow snarled. The man ignored them completely, focused on the tableau in front of him. A blonde woman, his girlfriend by the look of it, was coquettishly posing at one of the tables. She had a spoon in her mouth and a cup in her hand, containing…

“I don’t believe it,” Clover said, astonished. “That’s it. That’s _our_ special.”

“We were going to buy one for you, but they’re a bit pricy,” Nora explained, giving Clover a sympathetic look. “And, well…the line.”

Clover’s head was reeling. Save a few changes to the garnish, that was their dish exactly. Did they have some kind of _mole?_ It wasn’t unheard of. No, that was crazy. People were always unintentionally copying each other. It’s not like he and Vine had _invented_ the idea of a lychee-rose panna cotta. But the styling, the way the dessert was structured…it was everything they’d done, but cranked up to eleven. He thought about the bad Yelp reviews, the claim that hairs were _baked into_ the baguette. The feeling like someone was trying to sabotage them.

“Ohmygod, I’m so full,” the blond woman whined to her boyfriend. She held out the cup, which appeared to have about three bites taken out of it. “Can you finish this?”

“Babe, you know I don’t like sweets. Let’s just toss—“

“I’ll take it,” Clover interrupted, barreling over to the couple’s table. He snatched the cup out of the woman’s hand, poking at the dessert with the spoon. The couple watched on, shocked, as Clover inspected each element. He tasted each individually, then as a group, then sampled the tuile garnish, then went back for another taste.

“What?” Qrow snapped, shooing off the annoying couple. “He hates food waste, okay? Now buzz off.”

Clover felt like he might pass out. He handed the cup to Nora, feeling numb.

“…Cloves? Talk to me.”

“That’s not our recipe,” Clover said, finally. “It’s close, but it’s not.”

It was not a mole. It was worse.

“That’s…good, right?” Ren asked. Nora took a large bite of the dessert.

“No,” Clover said. He buried his face in his hands, groaning. “It's not our recipe, as in I think it’s actually better.”

The rose flavor was extremely light, not cloying at all. Clover actually liked floral flavors, but they could come out like perfume if done incorrectly. The lychee was similarly delicate. Clover had thought they’d done a bang-up job balancing the two, until he tasted this. It was _perfect._ Even the tuile cookie was remarkably crispy, despite getting half dunked in pudding. It was like this dessert had been grown in a lab.

Someone had reverse-engineered their special, and then done a better job of it.

“Tastes like flower jello,” Nora said. Clover wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. “So what now, we go beat them up?”

He exchanged a look with Qrow. The other man’s shoulders hunched slightly. They both knew what they could realistically do about this, and the answer was _not much._ It wasn’t like recipe-stealing was illegal, and this wasn’t even that. Someone copied them. End of story.

Qrow sighed. “Who’s the chef behind this, anyway? At least we can figure out who’s gunning for you.”

“If Cinder was promoting this,” Clover said, “I’d bet dollars to donuts GRG’s bankrolling the whole thing.”

Qrow went stiff, beside him. “Salem.”

“You’ve heard of her?” Clover asked, raising his eyebrows.

“She and Oz have a history,” Qrow said, gritting his teeth. “Ugh, it figures. Let’s get out of here, this music is giving me a headache.”

Clover felt his own stomach churn. The unfairly good panna cotta was making him feel sick.

“Leaving so soon? Not without taking my poison challenge, hmm?”

The voice was syrupy sweet, sweeter than the lychee panna cotta, and coming from a wiry man with a long, dark braid. It was like he appeared out of nowhere, suddenly draping himself around Qrow. His gold eyes raked over the former chef’s body, a little giggle escaping his lips as Qrow turned to him with an annoyed look.

“Who the hell are you?”

There was a tittering around them, as the crowd noticed the man’s presence. Several people took out their phones. Clover had a bad feeling about this.

“Not a fan?” the man said, with a pout. “What a shame. You seem like the type who enjoys a little _heat_.”

Belatedly, Clover realized that his man was _hitting on his date_. And was presumably connected to the pastry chef who had _copied his dessert_. The numb feeling in his chest started to crystalize into something much sharper.

Just as he was about to step in, Qrow disentangled himself with a disgusted growl. “Look, buddy. I don’t really care who you are or what your dumb gimmick is, but I’m not interested.”

The man’s eyes slid over to Clover, more amused than offended. He giggled again. It was extremely creepy.

“Ah! No offense intended,” the man drawled. “Sugar and spice, and everything nice! We all like to have dessert first, from time to time.”

His eyes slid back to Qrow, delivering a lecherous smile. “Save some room, though. I’ll see you at the _main course_ when you’re done.”

And with that he slunk off toward the patio, his trilling laugh echoing over his shoulder as he gave them a little finger wave.

Everyone was silent for a second.

Nora was the first to speak, gasping and slapping her hands over her mouth, then screaming into her palm.

“What?” Qrow asked. “What was that? Who the fuck was that?”

“You’ve never seen ‘ _Toxic Spice?’”_ Nora shouted, grabbing Qrow’s arm. “On YouTube? It’s got like _two million_ subscribers. It’s _so hot right now!_ Pun intended, by the way.”

“Uhhhhhhhh…” Qrow drawled. He slowly turned to Clover, completely lost.

Clover shrugged. “I don’t really watch a lot of food TV,” he replied. “It’s not good for me.”

It made him throw things at his laptop.

Qrow’s mouth quirked in amusement at that. Clover flushed, feeling a bit of heat in his face that had nothing to do with chicken. 

“He’s, like, _crazy_ ,” Nora continued. “He’ll go up against anyone, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose. Tons of people have been on it.”

“It’s a reality competition show about eating spicy food,” Ren clarified. “Every episode is basically the same.”

“Not true!” Nora protested. “He gets different celebrities. And different food!”

“…he?” Clover asked. A feeling of dread was settling into his stomach.

“That guy just now,” Nora replied. “ _Tyrian.”_

“Yeah, well he gave me the creeps,” Qrow said, shuddering. “And what was all that about the main course?”

As if on cue, the music quieted. A soft female voice sounded through the speakers, low and seductive.

_“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming tonight. I hope the fires of love burn bright for you, this Valentine’s Day. We now present our main event. Who amongst you will be brave enough to face the heat?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Restaurant pop-ups are basically just non-permanent installments, typically from chefs that already have some industry clout. Like a Spirit Halloween store, but for trendy food! So for example, a chef might dedicate one night a week to selling lobster rolls out of a Thai restaurant's kitchen on their usual night off. My take on them isn't as hot as Qrow's, but they're about as frivolous as they sound.


End file.
